


(i'm here with you) in the darkest shade of blue

by nnegan13



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Eating Disorders, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, eva and edo are cousins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-02-28 17:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18760657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nnegan13/pseuds/nnegan13
Summary: incantava childhood friends to lovers AU--currently on hiatus for rewrites and edits





	1. maybe she’s just the Giovanni charmer

**Author's Note:**

> the implied/referenced sexual assault will be marked with *** before and after if you want to skip those scenes 
> 
> the eating disorder content won't be marked as it's a frequent part of the narrative 
> 
> be careful and stay safe lovelies

 

Eleonora remembers the exact afternoon Edoardo Incanti moved into Eva’s house. She is seven years old and sitting at their kitchen counter, fingers in the Brighi’s cookie tin while Eva scoured their family room for missing Nerf darts. The front door opens, Eva goes running for her parents, and Eleonora climbs down off the stool. 

When she turns, they are all standing in the doorway, Eva halted a few feet away from her. Paula smiles, a hand on Edoardo’s shoulder. “Eleonora, you remember Eva’s cousin Edoardo, don’t you?” 

She nods once, eyes wide. Edoardo is eight years old and the best football player she knows and he tripped her once on the field during gym when their class played with the year above. 

There’s a bag over Giorgio’s shoulder and Edoardo has his backpack on even though it’s summertime. Eva pushes her hair from her face. “Are we having a sleepover, mama?”

Paula shakes her head while Giorgio pulls Edoardo toward the bedrooms. “No, baby.” She crouches by Eva, grasping her little hands. Eleonora backs into the stool and watches owlishly. “Edoardo’s dad, he’s gone to work in Milan and your cousin, Andrea, went with him. Edoardo still is going to go to school here and has no one at home with him so his dad asked if he could come live with us.” 

“So, it’s like a sleepover?” 

Paula smiles. “Sure, baby.” 

Eva tilts her head and looks over at Eleonora. “Can Ele come live with us, too, then?” 

—

Edoardo plays with them for the rest of the summer. He teaches them his best football tricks and they teach him how to do a cartwheel. 

Eleonora falls to the ground for the fifth time trying to do a rainbow and smacks her chin on a rock. When she draws her fingers away, they’re spotted with blood. 

“Eva!” Edoardo calls, bending down to look at her chin as Eva runs over. “Should we take her home?” 

Eva nods. “Okay.” 

Edoardo holds out his hands and Eleonora lets him pull her up. “Don’t worry,” he reassures her. “I hit my head a bunch trying to figure it out.” 

She tilts her head at him, pokes his chin. “You don’t have a scar.” 

“I wish I did,” he proclaims and they share a grin. 

—

When she and Eva are ten and Edoardo eleven, he learns how to swear properly at school. He comes bursting into Eva’s room once classes are let out and sits them down to show off his newfound knowledge. 

“Why are you telling us this?” Eleonora asks, Eva mumbling ‘fuck’ over and over again next to her. 

Edoardo’s smile is wry. “You’re gonna be in middle school next year, this is basic knowledge. I won’t have my cousin and her friend making me look dumb.” 

She tilts her head up, rolling one of his swear words around on her tongue. “I think you mean ‘look like shit,’ right?” 

He claps, face lighting up. “Exactly!” 

—

One day during the summer she turns thirteen, when Isidora, her mother, is on a trip to Padua and Filippo has disappeared with some of his high school friends, Eleonora opens her front door to see Edoardo standing there, chest heaving and bike at his side. “I need your help.” 

“Why?” She asks, guiding him around to the side of his house where he can put his bike. 

“There’s a girl in my class that I’m going to kiss on Saturday and I have no idea how to do it,” he says, cheeks pinking though he doesn’t look away in shame. She tilts her head, an eyebrow raising, and puts her hands on her hips. 

“You think I know how to do it, or something?” She circles around the house to the backyard with the porch covered in plants and the best grass for playing. 

“No,” he huffs and follows her. They’re of height, and she knows it pisses him off because her growth spurt is coming before his, and she steps up onto the porch and stops, turning to face him a whole head taller. “But I figured I could practice with you.” 

“I think you’ve been watching too many movies.” 

He frowns and looks up at her, eyes pleading. “Ele, please.” 

She cuts her gaze to the left, considering his proposition as she studies the climbing plants potted along the porch railing. “Don’t you know any other girls to practice with?” 

“None that I’m good enough friends with.” He sounded defeated and when she peeks back over, he’s pouting. Waving, he turned to leave. “Don’t worry about it, actually—”

“Come here.” 

He looked over his shoulder. “What?” 

“Come here,” she repeated, pointing next to her on the porch. “I’m not going to kiss you if you’re shorter than me.” 

Grinning, he hops up on the porch next to her, jittering with nervous energy. Her stomach is flipping but she tells it to be still because this is just Edoardo, who she’s known since she was seven, there’s no reason to be scared. Besides, this is strictly economical, strictly business, he’s going to kiss another girl on Saturday for god’s sake. 

Placing her hands on his shoulders, she presses down hard. “Stop.” 

He shakes his head, still smiling, but does as she asks. “Okay, are you ready?” 

She licks her lips and nods, closing her eyes, and he brushes his mouth over hers for a second or two or three before drawing back. “Good?” 

Her eyes open and she nods again. “Good.” 

—

That fall at school, Eva decides they should be friends with Laura and Sara, Edoardo hangs out with some boys from his football team that go to the school his father wants to transfer him to over winter break, and Eleonora takes to reading more books. 

They’re laying all over Eva’s couches in her family room one Saturday, trying to decide something to do, when Eleonora realizes one strong factor Laura and Sara must have had when they decided to befriend her and Eva. 

Edoardo and his friends, Chicco and Fede, exit his room down the hall, tossing a football between them. Eleonora turns a page in her book, feet tucked under Eva’s butt, and swats Edoardo’s hand as he ruffles her hair in passing. Though she pretends to ignore the boys, she watches Laura and Sara perk up as they pass through, eyes following Fede and Chicco as they exit and lingering on Edoardo when he stops to talk with Eva. 

He clasps Eva's hand as she tilts her head up, cushioned on the couch, to look at him. “Ah, tell your mom we’re going to the park so she doesn’t flip her shit when she comes home.” 

“Sure.” She waves their hands in the air. “Are they going to stay for dinner?” 

“Maybe.” He shrugs, letting go of her hand and heading for the door. “I’ll let you know.” 

Eva makes a face. “Mom took away your phone, remember?” 

“But Chicco has one.” 

“Bet you don’t know my phone number.” 

A confident smile cracks his face and he backs into the door. “Sure I do,” he says and proceeds to recite it to their surprise. He points at Eleonora. “I can do yours, too.” 

She peers at him over her book, pressing her lips together so she doesn’t smile. “Good for you.” 

“Oh, do Ele’s,” Eva says, a grin on her face as Eleonora looks back at her book, not processing a single word she reads. 

He does and Eleonora pretends that her cheeks don’t heat up as he gets number after number correct. Her eyes flick up, an involuntary gesture, and he winks at her. “See you later, Eva.” 

“Bye,” Eva singsongs as he leaves and turns to Laura and Sara on the couch across from them. “Are you girls gonna stay for dinner?” 

“Since when is your cousin so cute?” Sara asks, cutting straight to the point. Eleonora reads the same paragraph for the second time, brain still slow from Edoardo reciting her phone number. “The last time we saw him he was all gross.” 

“It’s incredibly gross that you think he’s cute in any capacity,” Eva accuses, eyes narrowing. 

“Eleonora thinks he’s cute,” Laura points out. Eva whips her glare over and Eleonora tries not to shrink behind her book. “She’s been blushing ever since he walked in.” 

“He’s as much my cousin as he is Eva’s.” She pushes the thought of their kiss during the summer out of her mind and spares a glance over at Laura and Sara before turning back to her book. “And it’s mostly gross that you think asking his cousin when he became cute is a good idea.” 

Laura and Sara mount protests but she has finally gotten into her book again, leaving Eva to their defense alone. She receives a sharp pinch on her ankle halfway through their argument but she just wiggles her toes under Eva’s bum. Laura and Sara are fun, sure, but if Eva thinks they hang out at her house all the time for reasons other than her cousin, she’s sorely mistaken. 

—

Laura’s mom is responsible for Eleonora’s first bra, however mortifying the thought may be. 

After school one day at Laura’s house, Laura proclaims, “My boobs have finally grown in, I think,” and Sara agrees, one hand on Laura’s breast and the other on her own for comparison. 

Eva, sat next to Eleonora at the foot of Laura’s bed opposite her and Sara, peeks down her own shirt before turning to Eleonora with a red face. “What do you think?” 

She shrugs. “My boobs are always going to be small, have you seen my mother?” Eva has, but Laura and Sara haven’t. They all nod along, just the same, and Eleonora continues, “I will forever be doomed to a flat chest.” 

They burst into giggles and take turns feeling around on each other’s sternums to determine who, exactly, is blessed with boobs, already. Then, Laura decides their activity for the afternoon: “My mother is home today, she can take us to the mall,” and they pile into Laura’s mother’s car. 

They spend their time collecting neon and lacy and patterned bras while Laura’s mom picks out the more practical, tiny, AA-cup bras for the four of them, shoving them and their selections into one giant stall in the dressing rooms and settling down outside with a book produced from her overlarge purse. 

“Ele, your boobs really are tiny,” Sara comments, tilting her head as they studying themselves in the mirror. 

“Well, I’m still growing,” she says, adjusting the bra and mimicking the way Laura turns her back to the mirror and looks over her shoulder. “They won’t be minuscule forever.” 

Looking in the mirror, though, she knows Laura’s proportions look the best out of the four of them: thin waist and growing breasts.  

—

Eleonora meets Sara’s older brother, Gabriele, at Sara’s fourteenth birthday party. It’s the first time she’s really been in Sara’s house before, her parents being very private people. She wears her nicest dress and pulls her hair back from her face and puts on the bright red lipstick Eva got her for her own birthday only a few weeks earlier. Sara’s mother made them fancy pasta and salad and let them eat off their finest plates and they celebrated finally all being teenagers. 

Once they carefully clear away the dishes and Sara’s parents retreat back to their room, Gabriele appears and introduces himself, eighteen and very handsome. 

“A special gift for my very special sister and her special friends,” he says, pulling a small bottle of wine from behind his back. “We don’t want you all to be behind your classmates at school, do we?” 

He pours them each a glass in Sara’s family’s fancy glasses and teaches them the best way to drink it so they don’t gag or retch at the taste. Eleonora tucks herself into the corner of the chaise, Sara sat next to her and Gabriele on the end. He braces his hand on the back right near Eleonora’s shoulder so his arm falls protective around Sara as they sip quietly at their wine. 

Though he teaches them properly, Eleonora still doesn’t like the way it tastes and tells him so, ignoring the glares Laura sends her from across the room. Eva, next to her, swallows another mouthful and Gabriele’s hand slips onto Eleonora’s shoulder, squeezing. “Guess we’ll have to drink together more, then, no?” 

—

“Filo, how do you know when a boy likes you?” They lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, and Filippo shifts his arm under Eleonora’s head and pulls her into his side. 

“I,” he starts, grandiose and knowledgable, “have no idea. Men are confusing.” 

She pokes him in the ribs. “You are no help.” 

—

Eva drags her along to Edoardo’s football matches on Thursday nights when she’d much rather be reading or gardening or waiting for Filippo to come back with leftovers from whatever fancy restaurant his friends decided upon. 

They sit on the bleachers, arms folded, next to the field behind the high school Edoardo will be going to (and Sara, too, maybe Eva’s parents will transfer her there as well) and watch him and his teammates kick the ball around, warming up, before the match starts. On the field beyond them, the high school team practices, Gabriele among them. 

Eleonora’s hand shifts to clasp her shoulder. “How do you know if a boy likes you?” 

“Hmm?” Eva asks, eyes following the boys on the field. “Ah, I don’t know.” 

A thin blonde girl approaches the far field and Gabriele peels himself off from the pack that is his team. He kisses her cheeks and curls his arm around her tiny waist, laughing easily as they talk. Eleonora tilts her head, hand slipping this time down to cup at her own waist. “How do you  _ get _ a boy to like you?” 

“Shouldn’t you ask Laura?” Eva suggests. “She’s got that Giovanni guy following her to the ends of the earth and they’re not even dating, yet.” 

Eleonora watches Gabriele press a kiss to the blonde’s lips, thinks of the gentle press of Edoardo’s mouth against hers, and remembers the curve of Laura’s waist in the dressing room mirror. Her fingers fist around her skin and she focuses back on the match starting before her. “Okay.” 

When the high school football team trickles away, Eleonora spares a glance their direction only to find Gabriele’s eyes on her already. She doesn’t smile and he doesn’t wave, but she watches him go and wonders at the next time she’ll be at Sara’s house. 

—

“Damn Ele, you eat like you’re one of the boys, too!” Chicco exclaims, watching her keep up with the bottomless pits that are Edoardo and his friends. The food in her mouth tastes like ash, now, and she tucks her fork underneath the edge of her plate.

Eva, on her second plate as well, scrunches her eyebrows at him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

Chicco was being cruelly honest that evening, his already nonexistent filter depleted in his tiredness and hunger. Eleonora has spent the afternoon at Eva’s again, mother gone in Padua and Filippo “studying” with a friend of his, and Edoardo and his friends have just show up after their practice to consume anything and everything Paula puts in front of them. Given that she and Eva have been joining in on these post-football feasts since they started playing together, she thought nothing of piling more food on her plate, adding to the effort to clean out the Brighi’s kitchen. 

“I’m just saying—”

“Well, say it to me, too,” Eva insists, and Eleonora takes a sip of water. 

“I can’t do that—”

“Chicco,” Edoardo warns, hand on Chicco’s shoulder and eyes darting between Eva and Eleonora. 

She ignores them as Chicco splutters further, pulling her phone out of her pocket and pretending to get a text. “I’ve gotta go.” 

“What?” Eva asks, attention drawn straight away from Chicco as Eleonora stands. 

“My mom,” she lies, collecting her things from the living room. “She’s back from Padua already and made dinner and I forgot.” 

Eva frowns. “But you said—”

“Yeah, I know,” Eleonora interrupts and slips her shoes on, walking to the front door. “She’s back and I’ve got to go.” 

She cuts off Eva’s further protests by opening the door and leaving, making sure not to slam it after her. Edoardo comes running after her and she hasn’t even made it half a block away, walking along with her bike. Tears are welling up in her eyes or she would be riding it far away from this conversation. 

“Ele, are you okay?” 

“Yes, I’m fine.” She wipes at her cheeks and blinks away the tears, hoping that the pressure behind her eyes dies down. “Go yell at your piece of shit friend.” 

“Eva’s doing that or I would be,” he says, following her lead as she swings a leg over her bike and peddles off. Unfortunately, playing football means his legs are stronger and he can easily keep up with her furious pace. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“Yes,” she insists, pausing at a street to make sure she doesn’t get hit by a car. Edoardo takes the opportunity to grab the handle of her bike and keep her from riding off. “Let go.” 

“Ele—”

“I’m serious.” 

He sighs and lets go of her bike. She watches as he rolls his tongue behind his lips and folds his arms, looking her up and down. “Fine. Are you coming over for All Saints’ Day or not, now that your mom is here?” 

She squints at him, catching her in the lie. Good thing she can lie more. “I don’t know, I need to talk to her about it.” 

“Okay, let me know so I can fend off any Chicco Rodi’s that might be in attendance.” 

“How kind of you.” 

“Thank you.” He mirrors her plastic smile with one full of smugness and grips the handlebars of his bike again, peddling himself around so he’s pointed back toward the Brighi’s. “I’ll see you, then?” 

“Not likely.” His laugh carries in the wind and she bikes away. 

—

“How do you get boys to like you?” Eleonora asks, perched on the windowsill in the bathroom. Laura doesn’t say anything, but the toilet flushes and the stall door opens. 

“They like skinny girls, the skinnier the better, in my experience,” she says, and gestures Eleonora into the stall. 

Laura shows her the best way to fit her fingers into her throat so it doesn’t hurt too badly when she vomits, and Eleonora practices at home. Isidora says nothing when she requests a book on nutrition over gardening at the bookstore and Filippo is just glad when there’s more food in the fridge for him to eat.   
  


*******  
  


At the next of Edoardo’s football matches that she attends, right after Christmas, Eleonora makes sure to wander over by the high school team’s practice as they’re leaving, claiming a need for the restroom to Eva and timing her stroll to match up with Gabriele’s as he leaves. “Eleonora, how come I haven’t seen you around my house anymore?” 

“Ask your sister,” she says, smiling a little. He bends down to kiss her cheeks and she tries not to blush. 

“I will.” He draws back, grin glinting in the sunlight. “I’m looking forward to drinking with you again.” 

“Maybe you can finally convince me that wine is worth it.” 

His grin widens. “What are you doing on Saturday?” 

—

Gabriele kisses her on Saturday behind a tree at a park far away from both of their houses. It is better and worse than Edoardo’s kiss and her mouth tingles thinking about it even days later.   
  


*******  
  


Her nutrition book becomes so worn that her mother threatens to throw it out the next time she comes home. “I won’t have books looking so shoddy in my home.” 

“It’s well loved,” Eleonora says, tucking her shirt into her pants. Her waist looks smaller like that, she thinks, and runs her tongue over her teeth, the acrid taste of vomit still lingering. 

“No, my textbooks are well loved, this—” Isidora holds up the tattered book, barely four months old, “—is mistreatment.” 

Eleonora looks over her shoulder. “Will you buy me a new one?” 

“Do I get to throw this one away?” She nods. “Fine.” 

 

*******

 

A month before she turns fifteen, Gabriele’s hand slides up her ribs, underneath her bra, and cups her breast. The surface of his palm is overlarge and his fingers are thick and it feels strange, but Eleonora supposes it feels good when he rolls her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. 

His other hand bends over her waist, curving her closer to him. His mouth finds its way to her ear. “These are so big, in comparison, don’t you think?” 

She doesn’t know what he’s comparing to or why he told her, but he lets her slip away when she thinks his hands are drifting too far and pull her shirt back down and tuck it into her shorts. She presses her hand to the handle of his car door and he watches her with hooded eyes. A smear of bright red lipstick paints his mouth and she rubs at her lips. “Um, I have to go.” 

“Can I pick you up tomorrow?” 

“Three—”

“Three blocks away from the school, I know.” He winks at her and she thinks of that day back at the Brighi’s when Edoardo knew her phone number by heart and she climbs out of Gabriele’s car. 

“Maybe not tomorrow,” she says. “My brother needs my help with a school project.” 

“This weekend, then?” 

“My mother is home.” 

He scoots across the backseat until he can plant his feet on the ground, one hand curling around her wrist. Bile bubbles up the back of her throat of its own accord and she looks at her shoes. His fingers tighten. “Next weekend, then, Eleonora?” 

When she nods, he lets go, and she tries not to run until his car is out of sight. 

—

It is unceremonious and Eleonora doesn’t cry even though it hurts at first and these kisses are better than Edoardo’s and she thinks maybe she even reaches a peak, and afterward, Gabriele lets her pull on his shirt and press her back into his chest and he slips away as abruptly as he appeared. 

 

***

 

Big means bad, she’s come to understand, watching Gabriele’s hand curve around the waist of that same thin blonde girl from months ago and feeling her own waist in comparison. 

Eva watches Edoardo’s team juggle footballs back and forth, playing with a wrapper of some granola bar. “Do you think Fede is cute?” 

“Hmm?” Eleonora draws her eyes from the high school team and looks down at Edoardo’s. “Ah, sure.” 

“Laura doesn’t think so,” Eva muses, tilting her head. 

“Why does what Laura think matter?” 

“She’s the boy charmer, Giovanni’s still hanging out with her and they haven’t even kissed yet. It’s been months.” 

Eleonora squints against the sun and Edoardo, from his position slightly behind the rest of his team as they finish their warm up, turns to look at them, waving. She waves back. “Maybe she’s just the Giovanni charmer.” 

“I guess that’s true,” Eva sighs. “She’s still been more successful with boys than any of the rest of us, though.” 

Edoardo’s grin sticks in Eleonora’s vision even as he turns away, helping kick the extra footballs off the field before the match begins, and she thinks of that instead of Gabriele’s hands and says nothing further.


	2. Edo wants to watch Tre Metri Sopra il Cielo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ED content warning 
> 
> stay safe lovelies

Her mother spends more time in Padua now than she does in Rome and misses Eleonora’s fifteenth birthday that June. She lies and tells Eva and Laura and Sara that they’ll have to celebrate some other time because her mother is here and Filippo thinks they’re waiting to celebrate until Isidora actually  _ is _ here and she spends the day on the porch, watering the plants and watching the sun cross the sky and reading a book that hasn’t said ‘calorie’ in two hundred pages. 

Edoardo rings her doorbell a little after dinner time and raises his eyebrows at her when she opens the door. “I didn’t think you were home, all of the lights are off.” 

She nods. “I’ve been outside all day.” 

“Okay.” He waits for a moment and gestures. His fingers are thin, two taped together. “Can I come inside?” 

“Ah, yes,” she says, stepping to the side and flipping on a light switch as he steps inside. “What are you doing here?” 

“It’s your birthday, right?” His brow furrows and he slips out of his shoes. He looks nice against the white wash of the walls, she likes the way the light splits and shines in his hair. “Or have I totally been wrong for the past seven years?” 

“No, it is.” 

“Eva said you were celebrating with your family.” 

“Yes, that’s what I told her.” 

“Well, where have they gone?” 

Pressing her lips together so they won’t tremble, she shuts the front door and walks toward the kitchen. Edoardo follows. “Um, Filippo is with his friends and my mom is in Padua.” 

All of her favorite cups are dirty (Isidora has an eclectic set), so she pulls out two mugs and a jug of lemonade from the fridge. Edoardo helps her carry them to the table and says nothing until she’s poured and drinking, sourness flooding her tastebuds. It has enough sugar in it that it doesn’t qualify as straight lemon juice, but not much more. 

“Did they get your birthday wrong, too?” His mouth is puckered. 

“No.” 

“Then why are they not here?” 

She shrugs and sips some more. 

His eyes burn, almost, as they stare her down and she’s on the verge of breaking and saying something when he does instead. “Okay. Can I give you my gift?” 

“You got me something?” 

He scoffs. “We are friends, remember?” 

Back almost as quickly as he is gone, he sets a pot on the table in front of her, bright purple flowers budding from equally vibrant green stems. Lavender. “Happy birthday, Ele.” 

Practically throwing herself out of her seat, she wraps her arms around him in a giant hug. He chuckles a little at her enthusiasm, but embraces her anyway. His hands trace at her ribs as she tucks her head into his shoulder, and she hopes he doesn’t notice the progress she’s made. 

—

Laura catches Eleonora in the bathroom days before the school year starts, door not quite latched when she locked it, and scolds her instead of saying anything else. “God, Ele, you’re going to get vomit all over the bathmat! Idiot!” 

Eleonora wipes at her chin, shaking the puke off her fingers into the toilet bowl and presses the handle down with her clean hand. “Sorry.” 

“Sorry? Do you know how terrible it is to clean up vomit?” Her voice is loud and Eleonora prays that Eva and Sara don’t hear her from the kitchen. 

“Yes,” Eleonora mutters low, but Laura ignores her. 

“Is this where you’re disappearing to all the time?” It’s not concern coloring her voice but disgust and anger and Eleonora wishes there was an easy path to the door, vomit covered hands and all. “Or is it to fuck Sara’s brother?” 

“Excuse me?” How did she find out? 

“You’ve gone too far,” Laura says, stepping forward and pulling up Eleonora’s shirt. She digs her fingers into Eleonora’s ribs. “I said skinny, not bone, you anorexic whore.” 

Laura’s fingers press hard enough to bruise and neither move for several long seconds. Eleonora’s chest heaves and it’s like Laura’s fingertips puncture her lungs with each breath. “I’m a whore?” 

“For fucking Sara’s brother? Leading Edoardo on? Yes.” 

There is no defense for Gabriele, none that Laura would hear, but Eleonora could argue circles around Laura about Edoardo. “Since when is this about Edoardo? I didn’t think you liked him anymore.” 

Laura’s face scrunches up into something ugly and unbecoming and her fingers dig harder into Eleonora’s skin. She presses her lips together so as to hold her silence and waits for Laura to speak. “This isn’t about me liking or not liking Edoardo anymore, it’s about you leading him on.”

Eleonora’s bottom lip trembles and Laura’s ugly expression smooths into something made of stone and she hisses, “Are you really crying, you emaciated slut?”

Eleonora jerks away so quickly that Laura’s nails cut three shallow gashes into her side. Blood wells in the fine lines and they both stare for a moment, two, three, before Eleonora pulls her shirt down and pushes past Laura to get to the door. Laura catches her arm, pulling her back, and for a moment, Eleonora thinks she might say something more. 

Laura lets go of her arm, lips parting, but Eleonora doesn’t stay to see if regret fills her eyes. Luckily, Eva and Sara are down the hall in Laura’s room and not in the living room and she’s able to gather her things and stumble outside without further interruption. She stands on Laura’s porch and wedges her feet into her shoes before tripping down the steps and grabbing her bike from the front lawn. She makes it to the street, bag tosses in the basket, before she has to stop. She holds her hands out in front of her, a thin crust of puke drying on her right palm, and watches them shake. 

They only stop when she clenches her bike handles hard enough that her knuckles turn white. 

—

It rings around in her head for days upon days upon days. 

She does not go to the Brighi’s after school anymore. She leaves all the food in the fridge for Filippo and picks a bite or two off Eva’s tray at lunch until she can’t look at Laura without wanting to throttle her. Edoardo transferred to that other school with Chicco and Fede and Sara last Christmas so she has no other friendly faces to seek out. 

She spends more time in the toilets, reading books, ignoring Filippo’s texts, and pretending that her mother answers her calls. 

She picks out a new brand of toothpaste because the one she was using reminders her too much of the taste of puke and buys new conditioner, her hair is the driest it’s ever been. 

There’s a scab from Laura’s fingers on her ribcage. Eleonora wants it to heal, but finds herself running her fingers over and over and over it countless times when she’s alone, especially hunched over the toilet, until it starts bleeding again and again. She can’t find it within her to stop. 

—

“Ele,” Eva says, tapping her pen on Eleonora’s notebook. It’s the last day of November, fall breezes whirling the last of the leaves off the trees outside, and it takes a moment for her to regain focus and she shifts her eyes over to Eva’s face. There’s a crease between her eyebrows and her mouth is downturned. “Are you alright?” 

Eleonora nods. “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

Eva tilts her head. “Do you want to come over tonight? Mom’s making risotto and Edo wants to watch  _ Tre Metri Sopra il Cielo _ .” 

A smile slides onto her face without a thought. She finds herself mindless like that so often that she can’t be bothered by it today, can’t mask a careful reaction. “That sounds nice.” 

Eva’s face brightens. It’s been two and a half months since Eleonora set foot in the Brighi household. “So you’ll come?” 

She pauses, rolling her pen between her fingers. “Okay.” 

Eva squeezes her so hard she feels like her bones are rubbing together. 

—

“Let’s play a little while Paula’s cooking,” Edoardo suggests, tossing a football between his hands like it’s not freezing outside. 

Eva pulls her out into the backyard and Eleonora stands, hands clutching at her elbows, and watches them kick it back and forth. Edoardo shoots it her way and she makes an attempt at a pass and finds herself staring up at the sky instead. 

“Ele!” She doesn’t know if it’s Eva or Edoardo calling for her but she can’t move. Even her eyelids feel heavy, hard to blink, and a flock of birds crosses the sky. There’s a hand on her arm, pulling her up, and her head lolls back. 

Her eyelids are so heavy. 

—

When she wakes up, Eva is curled in the hospital bed next to her, Edoardo asleep in the chair beneath the window. There are loud voices in the hallway, but Eva’s hair tickles her nose, sending tingles down her spine, making the hair on her scalp rise, and it smells good, so she lets sleep pull her under again. 

—

“What do you mean Eva is transferring schools?” 

“Will the recovery take long?” 

“I’ve been in Padua teaching for the last month, how am I supposed to know the last time she ate? Filippo?” 

“A dietician? The girl starved herself and you want her to see a dietician?” 

“It was someone from their school, Eva said so herself.” 

“How much does the transfer cost?”

“Oh, let Eva stay in the bed.” 

“A therapist?” 

“I haven’t spoken to her father in years.” 

“Edoardo, get out of that seat!”

“Child services?” 

—

“Ele,” Eva whispers, finger tracing up and down her arm. Eleonora’s back is pressed to her chest, Eva’s head tucked right next to hers and when she blinks her eyes open, Edoardo is still sitting in the chair next to the window. “Good morning.” 

She reaches up and clasps Eva’s hand in hers. “Hi.” 

Edoardo watches her with dark eyes, face inscrutable. The blinds are pulled shut, the room lit only by the sunlight that seeps in through the cracks. They are alone, the three of them, and Eleonora is grateful. “How long have I been asleep?” 

“Most of the night,” Eva says. “The doctors said you woke up around midnight but no one noticed.” 

“Speaking of,” Edoardo says and gets up, poking his head out the door. 

Eleonora shifts off of Eva to lay flat on her back, Eva moving her head to rest on Eleonora’s shoulder instead of on her neck, and they tuck their clasped hands between them. She turns and presses her nose into the top of Eva’s head. “I’m sorry.” 

Eva shakes her head. “Don’t say that.” 

Eyes closing, Eleonora curls closer to Eva. “I’m sorry.” 

“Ele,” Edoardo says, and then a soft hand rests on her arm. The doctor. 

“Ms. Sava,” he says, voice low, and she turns to look at him. He has a kind smile on his face and lets Edoardo back into his chair before settling on a stool. He says nothing about Eva laying in the hospital bed as well, just pulls the IV drip closer so the wires don’t strain. “Would you mind answering some questions for me?” 

—

Filippo comes to stay overnight that weekend, relieving Isidora so she could go sleep, once the Brighi’s cart Eva and Edoardo away. 

He drops his bag into the chair next to Eleonora’s bed before rustling the hair on her head. “You little shit.” 

“Hi,” she replies, a smile curving onto her face. She picks at the tape holding the IV in place and Filippo climbs into her bed, taking her hand in his so she stops. “Sorry to derail your weekend.” 

“Time spent with you is never a derailment, Ele,” he promises and she pretends pressure isn’t building behind her eyes. He nods his head at his bag. “I brought some polishes, can I paint your nails for you?” 

She nods and lets him pick soft, happy pastel colors, blue, pink, yellow, green, purple. He shifts to sit cross-legged at the end of her bed and she mimics him, pressed against her pillows, and lets him do as he pleases to her hands. He has fancy lotion and bottom coat, which she’s never used before, and once the polish is dry she pressed her hands to her nose. They smell like roses. 

“Do you like them?” Filippo asks, pulling one hand toward him to study her nails more closely. He doesn’t sound unconfident, more contemplative, and she nods. 

“Yes, thank you, Filo.” 

He presses a kiss to the middle of her palm and she rubs her thumb over his lip ring. Both of them smile. 

—

Two weeks later her mom has gone back to Padua to finish grading and figure out her teaching situation for next semester. She will stay home with Eleonora and help her finish out the school year at home, online and through workbooks. To say neither are excited is an understatement, but Eleonora tries to be happy about the time she gets to spend with her mom. 

She drops Eleonora off at the Brighi’s on her way out of Rome. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, she makes hollow claims, “I love you, Nori,” and drives away before Eleonora is inside. 

Eva pressed a key into her hand before the Brighi’s and Edoardo left the hospital and Eleonora thinks it might be an apology of sorts from all of them: sorry we didn’t see, sorry we couldn’t help, sorry you didn’t feel welcome here. Her fist tightens until the pattern of the key imprints on her palm, and then she walks to the front door and uses it to get inside. 

The lights are off, Paula and Giorgio are working and Eva is at school for a group project. Edoardo didn’t say where he would be, but she can see him laid out, sleeping, on the sofa in the front room and smiles a little. First, she pads down the hallway to put her stuff in Eva’s room, then tiptoes back to the living room. There’s a blanket thrown over the couch opposite the one Edoardo’s lying on and she picks it up and drapes it over her shoulders before crossing to him. He looks younger when he’s asleep, face a little less sharp and worn. Lucky for her, he’s squished into the corner made by the cushions, and there’s enough space for her if she lays on her side. 

He stirs a little, eyes squinting up at her, as she lays down and pulls the blanket over both of them, shifting her head to rest on his chest so she can hear his heartbeat. Eyes closing, she can feel his arm curl around her shoulders and his hand fist in the blanket. “Ele?” 

“Hi,” she whispers and then there’s moving and tangling of legs and pulling the blanket until they’re both situated on the couch. His chin rests of the top of her head, pillowed further on his chest, and she’s warm all over. It’s nice. “I hope you don’t mind.” 

A laugh rumbles in his chest. “Too late now, don’t you think?” 

She muffles her own laughter in his shirt and blinks slowly. The room is steadily darkening as evening falls and sleep has never seemed a better idea. Over her shirt, his hand presses into her ribs and, for the first time since the hospital, the idea of him asking questions doesn’t send her into a panic. 

“How come you didn’t tell me?” No hint of anger, of accusation; it’s soft enough she’s not even certain he spoke. 

“I didn’t tell anyone.” His resting heartbeat is slow and comforting in her ear. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” His smile is audible and she tries not to laugh again. “How long are you staying over?” 

“At least the weekend,” she says, and snakes her hand over his waist. “Maybe part of next week, too.” 

“Paula and Giorgio are going to be gone Monday and Tuesday,” Edoardo comments. 

“That’s exciting.” 

“Mm, it really is,” he says, and pauses, fingers suddenly tense on her waist. “Maybe we, you me and Eva, could make something one night. Whenever her parents are gone, all her cooking ability goes out the window and leftovers are so much better than the shit she brings home sometimes—are you laughing?” 

“What? Never.” She hides her face in his shirt and his fingers tickle at her side instead of tensing against it this time and she giggles until her stomach hurts. 

—

On Monday night they go to the grocery store and Eleonora rides in the cart while Edoardo pushes and Eva hands over their selections to go in the cart with Eleonora and she prides herself on not handing anything back, even after checking the nutrition labels. The store is close enough to the Brighi’s that they were able to bike over and Eleonora tries not to relish too much in how nice the outside air feels. 

Back at the Brighi’s, she throws open all the windows even though it’s December and none of them are dressed for it. Eva sets a pot on the stove and Edoardo hooks his phone up to the speakers in the kitchen. 

There’s a window right above the sink and the counter next to it is clear, so Eleonora climbs onto it and folds her legs beneath herself. 

Eva starts singing off-key and Edoardo smiles, moving the groceries next to Eleonora as he starts preparing. 

After silently cutting ingredients to Eva’s raucous singing, he turns to Eleonora, thin slices of mozzarella, tomato, and a basil leaf pressed between his fingers. It’s a poor excuse for caprese, no olive oil or balsamic to be seen, and she has a hard time moving her hand to take it from him. It fists in her lap but he doesn’t say anything, just waits with his hand extended until her hesitant fingers ease it from his. 

Again, another pause, but she raises it to her mouth and bites into it, tomato and mozzarella flooding her palate. He smiles, a soft curve, and turns back to his preparations as she chews. 

Once they’ve eaten, Eva bundles Eleonora in a blanket and all but sits on top of her on the couch as Edoardo searches for the DVD copy he has of  _ Tre Metri Sopra il Cielo _ . Once he puts it in the DVD player, he retreats to join them on the couch, sitting down next to Eleonora and putting his arm across the back of the couch behind her. 

She knows what they’re doing, not letting her leave so soon after the meal, and can’t help her smile. It’s nice, even if her mind is going haywire, but Eva’s playing with her hair and she thinks of Edoardo’s smile from earlier that night and manages to stay put through the whole movie. 

Going to the bathroom is pointless, now, but she does so anyway and ignores the fact that Eva trails mindlessly down the hallway after her and waits outside the bathroom while she pees, flushes, and considers before shaking her head and washing her hands. 

“Can your mom take me to my appointment on Wednesday?” She asks as she exits the bathroom. Eva sits, back pressed to the wall with the blanket pulled around her, just outside the bathroom and looks up when Eleonora opens the door. “My mom’s still gonna be in Padua.” 

“For sure,” Eva says, and holds up her hands for Eleonora to help pull her to her feet. 

Eleonora’s eyes find their feet, socks matching because Eleonora stole some of Eva’s this morning, and Eva waits, their hands still held together. “Would you come with me?” 

Eva nods. “Of course.” 

—

At the appointment, she checks in herself and argues with the nurses that Paula, is in fact, a suitable adult to be with her during her appointment and yes, her mother did sign off on the idea and yes, she knows her mother should be here but isn’t, and, yes, she knows having Eva sit in the room as well is unconventional but she doesn’t care. 

The doctor has a nice smile, though, and doesn’t ask too many questions and the IV drip doesn’t sting too much this time around and Eva is ahead in their maths class and helps her with her homework while they wait for the dietician to show up. 

When Eleonora tells her about Monday night, all the homemade cooking and fresh ingredients, she prescribes more, if dietitians are allowed to prescribe things. 

“That’s exactly what you need, you know,” she says, and Eleonora nods because what else is she supposed to say? “The fresh ingredients are most important, the more you have the sooner we can stop giving you that,” she nods at the IV drip. 

“Okay,” Eleonora agrees and watches the dietician draw a book out of her bag. 

“I understand you have some experience with these.” It’s another nutrition book and she takes it gingerly in her hands, humming a ‘yes.’ “This one focuses less on calorie counting and more on food benefits. If you think it would be helpful, I’d like you to read some of it.” 

“Okay.” 

“Yeah?” Her tone is surprised, but she doesn’t know Edoardo’s hand can fit all the way around Eleonora’s wrist with his fingers overlapping, so Eleonora brushes it off. 

“Yeah.” 

—

Her mother comes home on the weekends, only. 

It’s the compromise she made with the university. Eleonora’s accident happened so suddenly that finding another professor to teach all of Isidora’s courses was impossible. Paulo, the boyfriend Eleonora has yet to met, is less than happy that Isidora has to leave every weekend, but Eleonora can’t help but feel some smug satisfaction that she can take precedence in her mother’s life again. 

It’s a terrible thought, but they come unbidden when Isidora is around. 

Christmas passes quietly and she manages to keep their entire dinner down even if she’s not ask successful for the rest of the break. Filippo insists on spending so much time with her that by the time break is over, she wishes she was going back to school. Isidora keeps her in the house all break, watches her closely, and it feels like monitoring and not concern. It makes her mouth taste bitter, more than the vomiting does, and she resolves time and time again to be happy about the time she gets to spent with her mother. 

“Nori,” Isidora says, soft, one evening. Eleonora is curled up on the couch, workbooks stacked open next to her and headphone in one ear as she listens to a voice message Eva sent to her. Isidora is dressed in silky pajamas and her hair is undone, long around her waist. For so long Eleonora wanted hair like her mother’s, but now that it’s getting longer she isn’t so committed. 

“Mama,” she says, setting aside her phone. Isidora doesn’t move from the doorway, but watches her for a few more seconds. Silence expands between them. 

It’s a Saturday a few weeks into January, her mother will be leaving tomorrow to make the drive back to Padua for her classes on Monday, likely before Filippo wakes up in the early afternoon and hopefully not so quickly as to cut their time together short, but Eleonora can tell by the way her mother is studying her that she won’t like whatever Isidora says next. 

Crossing to her, Isidora crouches next to the couch, hand smoothing down Eleonora’s hair and lips finding their way to her forehead. For a moment, they stay like that, pressed together, and Eleonora closes her eyes and inhales her mother’s scent. It’s nice, her mother’s fingers threading in her hair and the gentle way her lips pull off Eleonora’s forehead. Isidora’s thumb rubs at Eleonora’s cheek and she opens her eyes. Her mother’s mouth is drawn and Eleonora’s stomach sinks. 

“Nori, I’m going to leave pretty early tomorrow, is that okay?” 

“Ah, sure,” she mumbles, bowing her head. 

Isidora tucks a strand of hair behind Eleonora’s ear. “Paulo asked me to come back a little early for a surprise. I can still tell him no if you want me to stay longer.” 

Eleonora stares at her hands, the nail polish from when Filippo painted them in the hospital chipped away into patches. She wants to claim her mother’s time for herself, but knows the few hours they’d have together tomorrow would be silted and awkward and a shade off from resentful. She shakes her head. “No, that’s okay.” 

“Really?” Isidora sounds a tone too happy but Eleonora ignores it. 

“Yes, if it’s important to you it’s important to me.” 

Isidora kisses Eleonora’s cheek before standing. “I’ll see you in the morning, Nori.” 


	3. or, don’t tell me, everyone loves you for this shitty mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ED content warning 
> 
> stay safe lovelies

Now that Edoardo is on the high school football’s team and Eva’s transferred and Eleonora is going to transfer when she starts school again, there’s even more incentive to attend his football matches, at least in Eva’s mind. For Eva, it doesn’t matter that Isidora comes home Friday nights (late, but Eleonora doesn’t tell Eva that, in case she ever needs an excuse _not_ to go to some random party), the football matches are more important. 

“Ele, the more stuff you go to now means you can meet more people from school and starting next year won’t suck as much,” Eva reasons, sitting back on the seat of her bike, her hair flowing behind her in the wind. Eleonora thinks of her own hair, almost as long as Eva’s (and her mother’s) and thinks about cutting it off once more. “C’mon, you know I’m right.” 

“Sure, sure,” she agrees, almost mindless. Eva does make a good point, so Eleonora follows her to the football matches each weekend with little complaint. 

Besides, Edoardo probably appreciates it, even if he only says so with his smiles. When Eva’s turned away from the field, waving at some new friends from school, he waves at Eleonora, face bright and smile crooked. For a moment, she hesitates, but he does a little rainbow for her with the ball he’s dribbling when she waves back and she can’t help but laugh. 

What a dork. 

Eva grabs her hand and drags her up the bleachers toward a pair of boys, both with hair slightly tamer than Edoardo’s, and a blonde girl. “Ele, you remember Giovanni, right?” 

“Ah, sure,” she says, mouth curving. 

Eva gestures to the unfamiliar boy and the girl. “This is Martino and Silvia.” 

“Nice to meet you all,” she extends her hand and they both shake. “I’m Eleonora.” 

They say their greetings and Eva and Eleonora sit with Silvia on the bleacher below Giovanni and Martino. Silvia leans in front of Eva to smile at Eleonora. “How long have you known Eva?” 

“Since we were little,” she says. Eva looks over and they both shrug. “I honestly can’t remember when we met.” 

“That’s so nice,” Silvia says, smile fond. “I’ve got a friend like that, too, Fede—Federica. You’d like her I think, right Eva?” 

Eva nods. “Fede’s super fun, she’s the best to hang out with.” 

“That’s good,” Eleonora says, unsure. 

“She’d be here tonight but her parents grounded her for going out too many times last week,” Silvia laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “But you’ll for sure meet her soon.” 

Eleonora nods, lips pressed together, and wonders how it will go. There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, but she loves Eva so she resolves to stay optimistic. 

Giovanni thrusts his hand forward, between Eva and Eleonora, and all but shoves his phone in Eva’s face. She laughs, and pulls it from him. “Did Laura send you this?” 

“Yeah.” Her eyes crinkle at the corners and she hands the phone back. 

“Are you gonna come with us, then?” 

“Uh,” Eva looks between Martino and Giovanni before glancing at Eleonora. “We had a movie night planned—”

“Let me see.” Giovanni passes Eleonora the phone and she examines the invitation to some party Laura wants to hit up next weekend. Right when she and Eva planned their annual rewatch of the _Harry Potter_ movies. Her stomach sinks further, but she smiles again and passes the phone to Martino. Silvia peeks at them over Eva’s shoulder and Eleonora isn’t sure how she feels about all the eyes on her. “Sounds fun,” she focuses on Eva. “You should go if you want.” 

“Why don’t you come with me?” Eva asks, putting a hand on Eleonora’s arm before looking behind her at Silvia. “And you, too.” 

Silvia smiles. “I’d love to.” 

Eva looks at Eleonora hopefully. “Ele?” 

She manages a nod, smile tight but nice enough that only Eva notices the strain and Silvia claps while Giovanni and Martino knock into each other’s shoulders. “Sure.” 

Eva, mid elation, spins to Giovanni. “You don’t think Laura will mind that we invited two more people, do you?” 

Giovanni shakes his head. “Nah, the more the merrier, right?” 

—

Sometime just before midnight, Eleonora finds her way to a quieter corner and pulls out her phone. Filippo, no doubt, would be busy and her mother isn’t home yet even though it’s incredibly late and she scrambles for someone to call. 

They arrived at Laura’s party less than two hours ago and immediately lost Giovanni and Martino to the crowd. Silvia and Eva pulled her to the kitchen and Eleonora couldn’t drink anything they handed her, thinking of the stems of wine glasses and hands that were too big, and eventually Silvia and Eva drifted away, too. It’s just a house party full of younger kids from the high school—she doubts anyone over the age of seventeen would be caught dead here—and she can feel the reckless energy seeping into her skin. 

Her heart pounds. Something is going to go wrong. 

On her way to an empty room to call _someone_ , she catches sight of long, curly black hair whipping around a corner and she thinks she might throw up. The hallway is empty for a moment, Eleonora presses a hand to the wall and wills her stomach to stay calm, and then a figure appears at the end of it. Laura. 

Eleonora can’t look away from Laura’s face, eyes wide and framed with messy eyeliner, and bile bubbles up in the back of her throat. They stand apart for a moment before Laura strides toward her. Eleonora swallows and waits for Laura to reach her, chin tilting up. 

“What are you doing here?” Laura’s tone is inscrutable. 

“Eva invited me,” she says, voice quiet. 

Laura purses her lips. “You haven’t been at school.” 

“I’m transferring.” 

“Transferring? You haven’t done it yet?” 

“No, I’m—” she pauses, realizing she is on her way to telling Laura the entire story and her breathing turns shallow, discernible only to herself. She corrects herself: “I’m waiting until next fall.” 

“Oh,” Laura says and brushes her hair away from her face. “Where are you going now, then?” 

“I’m doing online classes.” 

Laura nods and reaches forward; Eleonora has to stop herself from stepping backward, and lets Laura cup her waist and run her thumb over Eleonora’s shirt where she dug her nails in all those months ago. It’s scarred, now, the scab finally healing despite Eleonora’s bad habit of picking it off, and Eleonora wonders if Laura can feel the raised tissue. “How’s this?” 

“Fine,” she says, and steps away. 

Laura’s hand hangs in the air for a moment as Eleonora leans against the wall, folding her arms across her chest and praying for the conversation to be over, soon. Laura’s hand closes in a fist and she puts it at her side. She says, “Where are you transferring to?” 

Eleonora hesitates, but tells her anyway. 

“Like Eva,” Laura says, and this time her voice sounds bitter. 

“Uh, yes.” Eleonora’s phone starts buzzing and she holds it up, hoping she looks apologetic. “I’ve got to go.” 

There’s a pause and Eleonora’s stomach spirals waiting for something terrible to exit Laura’s mouth, but Laura just shakes her head. “It’s good to see you, Ele.” 

That spiral turns to rage, bright and biting, and she almost gasps with the heat of it. Her phone keeps buzzing in her hand, but she takes the time to meet Laura’s eyes. “It’s Eleonora.” 

Laura’s brows furrow before smoothing out, eyes growing hard and face stony. She know what Eleonora’s saying, what Eleonora means, and nods. “Eleonora.”  

—

Eva all but yells, “ _Ele, where are you?_ ” on the other line and Eleonora ducks into a bedroom, thankfully empty. 

“I—ah—I’m still at the party, I think I’m gonna call Filo to come pick me up, though.” 

“ _Ele_ ,” Eva whines, drawing her name out. “ _Don’t leave yet._ ” 

“I’m not feeling great,” Eleonora says. “Trust me, it’ll be better for everyone if I leave.” 

“ _Ele it won’t be good for me if you leave, I love you_ ,” Eva sings, not sounding as distraught as she’s making it out to be. “ _Please stay_.” 

“Eva,” she’s almost pleading, now. “I’m gonna go, okay?” 

“ _Fine_ .” She can hear Eva’s pout and smiles a little. “ _Text me when you’re home. I’m coming over tomorrow to check on you_.” 

“Okay,” Eleonora agrees. They say their goodbyes and hang up and she stares at her phone screen, trying to decide if calling Filippo is worth it. Just above his name is Eva’s, and, then, Edoardo’s. Did he say he was doing anything tonight? Would she be interrupting anything if she called? She thinks harder about it. He can’t drive yet, so he would bike over here or even take the bus and then ride back with her; it doesn’t sound like the funnest thing in the world. 

Her thumbs move of their own accord, opening WhatsApp and typing before it registers in her mind. 

> _23:51, to_ **Edoardo** :  
>  What are you doing right now? 

One check mark, then two. 

> _23:51, from_ **Edoardo** :   
>  Nothing   
>  What’s up? 
> 
> _23:51, to_ **Edoardo:**  
>  I’m at a party with Eva and I was thinking of leaving soon   
>  Filo can’t come pick me up and I don’t have anyone to take the bus with 
> 
> _23:51, from_ **Edoardo:**  
>  Do you want me to come over? 
> 
> _23:52, to_ **Edoardo:**  
>  Would you?
> 
> _23:52, from_ **Edoardo:**  
>  Of course   
>  I’ll text you when I get there. What’s the address? 

She types it out and sends it and gets a thumbs up in reply. A smile forms on her face, staring at that dumb emoji, and the dread from encountering Laura evaporates. So distracted is she that when her phone starts ringing again, Edoardo’s contact picture filling her screen, it takes her several seconds to answer. “Hello?” 

“ _Hi_ ,” he says and she can hear the music on the other line fade to the background. 

“I thought you said you weren’t doing anything.” 

“ _I’m not, it’s just Fede and Chicco_ ,” he says and then a door slams in the background and suddenly all she can hear is his breathing as he starts walking to the bus stop. “ _We were playing FIFA_.” 

“Exciting Friday night.” She smiles and sits down on the bed. 

“ _I mean, I was winning when you called so_ —“

“So, Friday night ruined?” She teases and almost immediately he starts disagreeing. 

“ _No, no, never ever is my night ruined when you call_ ,” he says. “ _It only gets better, even if it can be mildly inconvenient_.” 

“Sounds contradictory.” 

“ _Your presence is worth the mild inconvenience, Ele, I promise_.” 

“I feel like you’re lying.” 

“ _When have I ever lied to you?_ ” They’re both teasing now and she can’t stop smiling so when the door to the room slams open, it takes a moment for it to register in her brain. A couple stands there, making out furiously in the doorway and then they start moving toward the bed and she can’t help but shriek a little. “ _What was that?_ ” 

The couple breaks apart and she springs from the bed, hand covering her mouth for a moment before she moves it and tilts the phone down. “I am so sorry.” 

“No, no, it’s fine,” the girl says, face red, as she rubs at her mouth, cleaning up her messy lipstick. “Ah, we didn’t think anyone was in here, the door was unlocked and everything—”

“It’s okay, I was leaving anyways.” 

“ _Ele, I’m not even to the bus, yet, what’s going on?_ ” 

The boy looks her up and down and smirks. “You can join us if you want.” 

“Uh, no thank you,” she says and flees before something else awkward happens. 

“ _Ele, what the hell is going on_?” 

“Nothing, nothing,” she says, wandering down the hallway and toward the front door. “The door wasn’t locked to the room I was in and there was this couple and—it doesn’t matter.” 

“ _Well, don’t leave yet, I’m just getting on the bus_.” 

“How much longer do you think you’ll be?” She wanders through the kitchen and tries to spot Eva or one of her friends and sees no one she knows. 

“ _Uh, ten minutes_?” 

“I’m going to start walking to the bus stop.” 

“ _Ele—_ ”

“It’ll be fine,” she claims.

“ _At least stay on the phone with me_.” 

She makes it to the front door, digging out her coat and bag from the pile and exiting. “Okay.” 

She slings her bag over her shoulder and folds her coat over her arm before starting down the long driveway to the road. The bus stop isn’t far, she should make it there before the bus does. “So, which team did you play with in FIFA…”

—

Summertime they spend at the lake in the Incanti’s villa, Edoardo’s dad and brother drifting in and out without actually staying to interact with them and the Brighi’s driving up on the weekends to supervise them. Isidora comes to visit a few times and drags Eleonora to Padua for a couple weeks but for the most part, her summer is spent with Eva and Edoardo. 

That June for her birthday, they pull out all the stops, biking into the little town nearby for groceries and gifts and spend the day on the lake with her before making a giant meal. They take a blanket or two to the end of the dock and make a picnic out of it and Eleonora eats until her stomach hurts. When her fingers itch and she wants to run to the bathroom, she grabs each of their hands and waits out her digestive system as they talk quietly, her head pillowed on Eva’s lap and Edoardo using his free hand to snack some more. 

“Fifteen, Ele, how’s it feel?” Eva asks after several minutes, already sixteen and a little smug. Edoardo, already seventeen, grins and peeks at her, eyes teasing. Eleonora can’t help her own smile. 

“Eh, about the same,” she says. “Maybe a little smarter.” 

“Oh, yeah? What wisdom can you bestow upon us now, oh wise-sixteen-year-old?” 

At first, she opens her mouth, quip ready and hilarious, but then her mind sobers. She thinks about last year, being fifteen, being fourteen, even, and pressure builds behind her eyes as she closes them. She tightens her grip on Eva’s hand. “Ah, trust your friends with the hard things in your life.” 

With Edoardo, her hand lays on the wooden dock, their fingers curled around each other’s. Now, he slips his fingers from hers and traces shapes on her palm with his nails and when she recognizes one of them as a heart, she opens her eyes and smiles at him. “Can I tell you guys something?” 

“Of course,” he says. 

“Um, last summer—” she stops and looks up at Eva’s chin. “When I was fourteen, really, I—Eva, do you remember meeting Sara’s brother?” 

Eva looks down at her, uses her free hand to trace a strand of hair behind Eleonora’s ear. “Sure.” 

She closes her eyes. “I saw him a few times after that.” 

It takes Eva a moment to say anything. “Like, saw him hanging out or _saw him_ saw him?” 

“At first, we just hung out,” Eleonora says and Edoardo’s fingers still on her hand. “Then it was _seeing him_ seeing him.” 

Before either of them can pull their hands from hers, she extracts hers instead, and balls them into fists over her eyes. Eva says, quietly, “Okay. Did anything happen?” 

Her stomach heaves and she shoots up, crawling to the edge of the dock and puking over the side into the lake. One hand, then two gather up her hair while a third rubs gently at her back. Her stomach flips once, twice more before she can relax her knuckles from their grip on the edge of the dock and sit back on her heels. Edoardo’s hand falls to her waist and Eva smooths hers over Eleonora’s shoulders before trailing down her arm to grab her hand again. 

Eleonora wipes the vomit from her chin with a napkin Edoardo hands her. “We—” she sighs, “we had sex, once, and he stopped responding to my texts, my calls.” 

Edoardo’s thumb makes a repetitive arc across her back and she stares out at the lake, the setting sun reflecting on the surface, brilliant oranges, reds, yellows, and her cheeks are wet. The pressure behind her eyes is less, but her lips tremble. “There was another girl that I’d seen him with and—and before we had even hung out together I was comparing myself to her. I was looking for what she had that made him want her and not me, before and after it all happened. Laura—I learned how to, uh, well, do this,” she gestures down at the water directly below the dock, not able to bring herself to say it out loud, “and after he stopped talking to me it got worse and I—I didn’t tell anyone.” 

For a moment, all she can do is stare down at her puke sinking into the water, pressing her lips together and trying not to cry even more. Then, she turns her head until she can see Eva in her periphery. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize, Ele. You didn’t do anything wrong.” She squeezes Eleonora’s hand and Eleonora can help but lean into her, pillowing her head on Eva’s shoulder. 

Edoardo, still silent, lets his hand slide off her back as she tilts and her stomach flips, but then his hand finds hers and she closes her eyes. 

—

The second to last day at the lake, she steals out on the dock early in the morning when the sky is just lightening and watches the sun rise, her feet rippling the water. When it’s high enough in the sky to be counted as early morning instead of dawn, the dock starts to shake and shake as Edoardo walks toward her and plants himself on her left. He hands her a folded paper towel, a flaky, chocolate croissant inside. 

“Thank you.” 

He hums and looks out at the lake, ripping a piece off his own croissant. “Are you excited to start school again?” 

It’s not a typical back-to-school question, or she would be annoyed, and she takes her time to think about it, chewing on one, two, three pieces before she answers. “Yes, I think so.” 

She looks over and his eyes are already on her, mouth turning up in a small smile, and she licks her lips. “I’m a little nervous, though. Meeting all new people and everything.” 

“You’ll do great,” he says, confident. “If you need, you can ask me about anyone and I’ll let you know if they’re cool.” 

She shakes her head. “My hero.” 

He poses, face turning comically serious. “It’s what I do best.” 

“You’re a dork.” 

A smile splits his face, light like the rising sun. “Thank you.” 

She laughs and a weight lifts off her shoulders; she is light, too. 

—

Her first day back is terrifying, she hardly knows her way around, she only has one class with Eva, she knows _no one_ , and, strangely enough, she misses her mother. 

Her second day, she has a better handle on things and lunch is fun, sitting with Eva, Silvia, and Federica, who Eleonora has come to learn is candid, hilarious, and fiercely loyal. She promises to show Eleonora the best places to hang out when she wants to ditch that the teachers don’t check and gives Eleonora her leftover veggies when the bell rings. 

Her third day back, the nerves return and she hardly speaks. People watching used to be a pastime for her so she tries it again, watching the way groups orbit each other in the courtyard, who stays inside the building during lunch, and who she passes on her way to class. Despite his assurance of help, she hasn’t seen Edoardo at school, yet, though she’s seen him everyday at the Brighi’s in the afternoon. 

Her fourth day back, she gets to her maths class early and slides into the empty seat next to Sana Allagui about halfway back. She flashes Sana a brief smile. “I’m Eleonora, is it okay if I sit here?” 

For a moment, Sana stares at her, hard but not with anger, before nodding. “Sure.” 

Silence expands between them as Eleonora pulls out her pencil case and her notebook and more students file into the classroom. A few shoot her confused looks, but she ignores them, flipping her notebook open to a new page and writing the date at the top. 

Sana places her hand on the desk next to Eleonora’s notebook. It’s silent, too, but commanding, and Eleonora looks at it before raising her eyes to Sana’s face. “Why are you sitting next to me?” 

Eleonora shrugs and purses her lips. “I think you’re cool and funny, at least from what I’ve seen in class.” 

“Okay.” Sana sounds skeptical but that doesn’t derail Eleonora, now is not the time to lose confidence. 

“I thought maybe we could be friends,” she says and tilts her head to the side. “I’m new, so I don’t have many.” 

Sana raises her eyebrows. “You want to be friends with the only Muslim girl in school?” 

Eleonora nods. “Yes.” 

For a moment, she wonders whether or not that was the right answer, Sana squinting at her and pursing her bright red lips, but then Sana pulls her hand to the edge of the desk, holding on with just her fingers, and nods. “Okay.” She turns away to write the date on a new page in her notebook before half turning back to Eleonora. “Where did you get your lipstick? It’s a good color.” 

Eleonora smiles and turns to face the front as the class really starts filling up, their teacher writing on the whiteboard. “I’m not sure, my friend Eva gave it to me. She goes here, too, do you want to eat lunch with us today? You could ask her then.” 

“Of course,” Sana says. “I would’ve invited myself anyways.” And they both laugh under their breaths. 

—

Lunch is more or less successful. Fede and Sana hit it off immediately and Eleonora catches Eva’s small smiles throughout lunch, even if Silvia betrays her ignorance the moment Sana sits down at the table. What is less successful is Eleonora’s fifth day back at school. 

She finally sees Edoardo, down the hall in front of her, arm slung over Chicco’s shoulder and head ducked toward him, lips moving in what she assumes is a low mutter. _They’re planning something_ , she thinks, and grins as she changes her trajectory to run into him. Only, someone else catches him first. Or, rather, Chicco, but all the same, her heart beats out of her chest and her steps falter when they list to the side of the hallway, and she sees the familiar golden sheet of hair that belongs to Sara wave as she leans against the wall, hand caught on Chicco’s arm. He laughs at something she says and Eleonora watches a faint smile alight on Edoardo’s face before his attention drifts around the hallway. 

His eyes meet hers after a few seconds, a bright smile cuts across his mouth this time, and he waves. She finds herself waving back, moving to walk toward him again, when Chicco and Sara’s attention is caught by Edoardo’s gesture. Chicco’s face lights up when he sees her, but Sara scowls over her shoulder. 

Eleonora’s close enough to them now to hear Sara mutter, “what a fucking slut,” under her breath as she turns back to Edoardo and Chicco, see the confusion flash across Chicco’s face and the anger solidify on Edoardo’s before she decides to not stop, to just say hi in passing. 

She slows long enough to catch Edoardo’s arm, hand slipping down to squeeze his, and greet him and Chicco before she moves to leave again. Heart rate high, she braces herself for the texts that will inevitably flood her phone later, but doesn’t anticipate Edoardo tightening his grip on her fingers and following after her, pulling them both into an empty classroom a few meters down the hallway. 

The door shuts with an air of finality. Their hands are still linked. Edoardo says, “Hi.” 

She shakes her head. “Hi. Sorry about that.” 

“It’s okay, not your fault, she was wrong anyway,” he says, making a face and brushing the whole thing off, and pulls her into a hug. She smiles into his shoulder and tucks her hands between his shoulder blades until they step away. She leans against a desk and he shoves his hands into his pockets. “How’s your first week been?” 

“Good. I only got lost once and I’ve already got friends.” 

“I knew there was nothing to worry about.” His tone is smug and she rolls her eyes. 

“I can’t believe I haven’t seen you until now.” 

He shrugs, mouth quirking up at the corner. “Arrangements can be made in the future if you’re missing me so much.” 

“Oh, yeah?” She asks, disregarding the end of his sentence. “Like what?” 

He moves to sit on the desk next to her. “You could always come to lunch with me. Or I could go with you and Eva.” 

“Mm, no I don’t think so.” 

“Why not?” 

Her mouth curves in a wicked grin. “I wouldn’t want to sully my newfound social status hanging with someone like you.” 

His smile is equally wry. “This isn’t middle school anymore, Ele. You might be surprised what hanging with me could do for your social status.” 

“Football players hot now, or something?” She teases and reaches up to ruffle his hair, sunlight cutting a gold streak through the curls. “Or, don’t tell me, everyone loves you for this shitty mess?” 

He laughs and bats her hand away. “Or something.” The bell rings and she steps away from the desk, turning to smile at him. He catches her hand again. “Bike home with me and I’ll tell you all about it?” 

The muffled sound of hundreds of high school students walking to class filters through the door. She nods. “Okay, text me when you’re done with class?” 

“Okay.” 

Eleonora steps into the hall, Edoardo’s parting smile burning on the inside of her eyelids, and immediately runs into someone standing outside the classroom. Sara, a plastic smile on her face. “Ele.” 

“It’s Eleonora,” she replies, tone flat and uninviting, before slipping past Sara and continuing down the hallway. 

Sara follows. “I heard you had an accident last year, I wanted to see if you were alright.” 

Eleonora looks over her shoulder, sees Gabriele’s face, and hears Laura’s voice in her head; she remembers a sleepover when they were fourteen and she overheard Sara criticizing how much weight she had lost, claimed Eleonora needed to lose even more if she wanted to be twice as pretty as she currently was, and the way she cried silently in her sleeping bag once she was sure Sara and Laura were asleep. “I appreciate your concern, but I try not to be friends with girls that tear down other girls.” 

She turns and walks down the hallway into the sea of students without looking to see if Sara follows. She burns with anger and pride, but her heart also beats with a familiar fear and she ducks into the first bathroom she sees, slipping into the last stall, locking it behind her, and pulling her hair out of her face. 

Her hand shakes, but she waits until it’s steady before opening her mouth.


	4. what the fuck is going on?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ED content warning 
> 
> stay safe lovelies

Halfway back to the Brighi’s, Edoardo nods at a random street. “Follow me.” 

“Where are we going?” Eleonora asks, but bikes after him anyway. He looks over at her and grins. 

“You’ll see.” 

She huffs and flicks a few strands of hair out of her face. “Didn’t you tell Eva we’d be over right after school?” 

“Yeah, but she told me she’s got this meeting with Silvia,” he informs her. “We’re good for a bit.” 

“Fine.” 

They bike down the wet road, clouds breaking as the end of the rainstorm that took up the majority of the morning and early afternoon dissipates, and the sun slices down through the trees. Her hair flows behind her in the wind and she pedals hard enough to sit back and balance, hands lifting off the handlebars. 

Eventually, they make it to another neighborhood and Edoardo slows down in front of a gate to a house with a rather large front yard. She stops next to him and raises her eyebrows. “Where are we?” 

He squints first at her through the sunlight and then turns to the house. “This is my father’s house.” 

He gets off his bike without another word, pulls a key out of his pocket, and unlocks the padlock on the gate, holding it open and looking back at her. A nervous thrum runs through her stomach and she wonders why he brought her here. 

Once they get up to the house, they dump their bikes on the porch and he lets them in through the front door. There’s a lot of windows and fancy, nice furniture, and open space everywhere. She spins as she walks through the front room, looking up at the ceiling as she goes. “It’s so big.” 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, and follows after her with his hands in his pockets. She turns down a hallway and comes face to face with a wall full of pictures. A lot of them are artistic shots, but she finds one of Edoardo when he was little, and one of him from more recently, and then two more similar pictures of a man she can only pin as Edoardo’s brother, and then she comes to the largest frame on the wall. 

It’s a family photo from when Edoardo was seven, she can tell because he looks as she remembers him from when he first moved in with the Brighi’s. His brother is younger, too, no facial hair and oddly skinny for a high schooler. His current photos paint him as stockier, more muscle and less hard lines. The differences between Edoardo and Andrea couldn’t be starker. 

What really grabs her attention is the woman at the center, sitting to Edoardo’s father’s right. She gave her hair and her eyes and her cheekbones to her son, Eleonora decides, lips parting slightly as she studies the photo. It must’ve been taken only weeks before she fell sick, her arm is snug around Edoardo’s little body and tears well shallowly in Eleonora’s eyes. “She’s beautiful.” 

Edoardo has a little smile on his face when she looks over at him, eyes on his mother, and nods. “The most beautiful woman I know.” 

Present tense. She smiles at him; it’s the best way to remember those that have passed, in her opinion. 

He shakes his head and steps next to her. “Wanna see something another beautiful woman in my life gave me?” 

“Sure.” 

He pulls her down the hallway and into the kitchen, flipping the lights on as he enters. They cast a yellow tint on the countertops and she slips up to sit on an empty countertop next to the sink as he rustles through cabinets. Victorious, he returns to her with a blue cookie tin and pops the lid off. “My nona taught me how to make these right before I moved in with the Brighi’s. I had to visit her a few more times to get the recipe down and she still makes them best, but I think I do a pretty good job.” 

She takes one and bites into it and lets the taste flood her mouth, ignoring the part of her brain asking after ingredients and serving sizes and where the bathroom would be and savoring the way the sweetness lingers in her mouth after she swallows. Rushing to the bathroom isn’t as important as listening to Edoardo right now. “Thank you.” 

“Of course,” he says, and takes his time picking out a cookie from the tin before setting it on the window ledge above the sink. “How do I measure up?” 

“Best cookie I’ve ever had.” 

A corner of his mouth twitches. “Don’t lie to me.” 

“I’m being completely honest,” she says, and holds up her hand, wiggling her fingers. “What is it the Americans say? ‘Scout’s honor?’” 

He shoves her hand and shakes his head, turning to lean against the counter next to her. “How am I supposed to improve if you aren’t going to give me feedback?” 

“I don’t want to insult your nona’s legacy.” 

“She’d thank you for the criticism.” 

Eleonora looks down at her hands, bites into her cookie again. “Is she gone, too?” 

Edoardo makes a noise. “No, no. You can meet her one day, if you want. Eat cookies from the true master.” 

He looks over his shoulder at her and she smiles. “I’d like that.” 

Without another word, he wanders out of the kitchen and she follows him, slipping her hand into his as they walk around the house. He pulls her up the stairs and down the hall to a bedroom, sparse and clean, and they stand in the doorway, staring at the bed for several long minutes. 

She squeezes his hand. “What’s up?” 

“My dad is moving back from Milan, or he means to spend more time in Rome,” he says, voice flat. “He wants me to come live in the house again.” 

That nervous jolt through her stomach returns. “Oh.” She has no other words, and tries to imagine the Brighi’s home without him in it. It’s hard, and she turns her face up to look at him. She whispers, “Are you going to?” 

Swallowing, he nods. “I think so.” 

“Oh.” Her eyes return to the bed, king sized and large like an ocean in comparison to the twin he has at the Brighi’s. “Have you told Eva yet? Or Paula and Giorgio.” 

“No, just you.” 

“Okay.” When she lays her head on his shoulder, he leans his on top of hers and she sighs, wrapping her fingers more tightly around his hand. 

—

By the following Wednesday, the next time she’s able to make it to the Brighi’s, Edoardo has moved out. It’s been six days since he told her, and she’s drawn to his old room almost as soon as she steps through the front door. Eva strays to the kitchen, dumping her bag and shoes by the side door, and Eleonora does as well before wandering down the hallway past Eva’s bedroom’s open door. His is closed, but not latched, and she eases it open with her foot. 

There used to be a blue bedspread covering the mattress and books on the bookshelves and clothes hanging in the closet. It’s sparse and bare, now, and Eleonora folds her arms across her chest as she leans into the doorframe. The blinds aren’t pulled down over the window and light streams over the white mattress and the light carpet and it feels much emptier than it is, actually. 

“What are you doing?” Eva appears at her elbow without a sound, voice cold, and Eleonora shakes her head. 

“I don’t understand.” 

“You probably know more than I do,” Eva says. “He hardly said anything when he came to get his stuff. Just some bullshit about his dad and staying too long.” _Staying too long?_ Eva glares at the bed. “He’s been avoiding me at school, too.” 

Eleonora frowns, thinking. “Why?” 

Eva shrugs and bites her lip. “I have no idea—” a lie, Eleonora can tell, “—but he’s got to get a taste of his own medicine.” 

“Why?” It’s just confusion rattling around in Eleonora’s brain, she doesn’t understand why Edoardo’s ignoring Eva and she doesn’t know what Eva means by “taste of his own medicine” and she doesn’t like either scenario very much. “What would that accomplish?” 

“It would make me feel better, Ele, please,” Eva asks, hard tone turned pleading by the end of her sentence. “It might get the message across that it’s kind of a big deal he’s being an asshole if you ignore him, too.” 

Eleonora tightens her arms around her abdomen, her skin running cold at the thought. Eva’s right, even if it churns Eleonora’s stomach to admit that any ignoring among the three of them is a good idea, so she nods. “Fine.” 

Eva pulls the door shut and strides back down the hall, hair whipping behind her, and Eleonora follows, a blank numbness falling over her. 

—

The next day finds Eleonora in a waiting room picking at her fingernails, at her cuticles, and waits for the receptionist to call her name. Her stomach gnaws at the inside of her abdomen and when she’s not picking at her skin, her hands shake. She swallows. 

There’s a woman and a little boy sitting on the couch across from her, the boy asleep with his head in his mother’s lap. Her hand brushes through his hair as she flips the page in her book and Eleonora’s heart clenches. It’s a Thursday and her mother can’t miss her Friday classes this semester. 

Before she can do something terrible, like cry, the receptionist stands and calls her name and she all but runs down the hallway. The door to her therapist’s office is open and she lists inside and into the chair next to her desk. One thing Eleonora really likes about the office is how the desk is against the wall and her therapist can spin her chair around to face Eleonora without a tabletop in the way. It’s nice, no barriers like phones or computer screens or half of Italy in between them. 

“Eleonora,” she smiles, voice chipper as she pushes the door shut with her foot. Now Eleonora really does start to cry, two thin streams down her cheeks. “How are you today?” 

Tell her everything, or nothing, or in between? It’s the game she plays whenever she comes, but Eleonora doesn’t think she could lie at the moment if her life depended on it, so she cuts right to the point. “I haven’t eaten in two days.” 

She can’t look at her therapist, kind eyes watching her, but she isn’t covering her face with her hands today so she thinks it’s an improvement. “Okay. Want to tell me why?” 

School. Sara. Edoardo. The Brighi’s. Isidora. She nods, an uncontrollable amount of tears welling out of her eyes. “Yes, please.” 

—

Her mother comes home that night, the first weekend Eleonora has seen her since her short jaunt to Padua over the summer. They’ve called and texted and even video chatted once, but this is the first time Isidora has set foot in the Sava household since the beginning of the summer. Eleonora thinks about the mother and little boy from the waiting room and presses her lips together. 

Filippo disappears into his room after dinner and Isidora pulls Eleonora over to the couch. They sit close together and she burrows into her mother’s side, curling as small as she can. She considers telling Isidora about Edoardo moving, but thinks better of it once her mother opens her mouth. “How was your first week, Nori?” 

“It was good,” she says and that’s mostly truthful. Isidora plants a kiss on her hairline. 

“And you’ve been eating?” Isidora asks, mechanical and awkward, and Eleonora figures her longing that afternoon was for things she can’t ever have. “The doctors said you might relapse at the beginning of the school year and I want to make sure that hasn’t happened.” 

It’s a checklist: make sure your papers get graded, call Paulo to check on the kids, make sure your daughter is eating, buy groceries at that store a few blocks from Paulo's for Sunday dinner, call to get the carpet in Filippo’s room cleaned. 

Eleonora makes her mouth turn up at the corners. “Yes, mama.” 

“Good, good,” Isidora affirms, nodding once, and pulling a strand of Eleonora’s hair through her fingers. “Your hair is getting so long, baby, it’s beautiful.” 

Eleonora tucks her head under her mother’s chin and stares out into the living room. “Thank you.” 

—

Sunday, right after Eleonora watches her mother’s car turn off their street, she strides down the hallway to Filippo’s room and enters without knocking. “Do you know how to cut hair?” 

“Why, spider?” He asks, but stands up from his bed anyway. 

She grabs the ends of her hair and shakes it, pressure building behind her eyes and stomach churning and churning. “I just—it’s too much and I don’t want to wait until a hairdresser can see me and—”

“Shh,” Filippo says, pressing a finger to her lips as he passes by on his way to the door. She follows him to the bathroom where he fishes a pair of haircutting scissors from his drawer. He gestures with them to the shower. “Wash your hair first.” 

When she’s finished, Filippo wraps a towel around her shoulders and carefully parts and brushes her hair, the ends tickling the bottom of her ribcage. He looks at her in the mirror. “You’re sure?” 

“Yes.” 

He makes the first cut just above her right shoulder and holds the loose end up for her to see. She smiles. 

—

Eva grins wide when Eleonora walks into the courtyard the next morning. They hug and kiss cheeks and Eva’s fingers pulls through her hair when they step away. “It looks so cute!” 

“Thank you,” Eleonora says, smiling as Eva keeps running her fingers through it. “Filippo cut it for me last night.” 

“Impressive.” 

“So it looks okay?” 

“Okay? It looks more than ‘okay,’ Ele, it’s gorgeous,” Eva says, rolling her eyes. They both laugh and Eva wraps her arm around Eleonora’s waist, but then spots something over Eleonora’s shoulder that makes her face fall. Her arm disappears and she steps away, giving Eleonora a smaller smile and saying, “I’ll see you for lunch?” 

“Sure?” Eleonora says, confused, and looks behind her. Edoardo stands half a meter away, hands in his jacket pockets and mouth upturned. She looks back at Eva and knows this is the first test of the Edoardo Ban. Her mouth fumbles over her words. “I’ll just come with you now, though.” 

“No, it’s fine, I think there’s someone who wants to talk with you.” It’s awkward, the air around them, the silted nature of their sentences, the way Eva’s curling her fingers over her backpack strap, and Eleonora looks at Edoardo again. 

She takes a step toward Eva, eyes still on him. His smile turns into a grin, teasing, and she purses her lips to keep them from curving up. Her mind is split. Does she follow Eva’s request, or does she try to mend the bridge? “Oh, really? I don’t think I see anyone.” 

“Funny,” he says. 

“Sorry,” she links her arm through Eva’s and tilts her head to the side, “did you need something?” 

He shrugs and Eva begins to walk them backward toward the doors, likely upset now that Eleonora’s acknowledged him. He steps slowly after them. “Just to tell this girl I know that I think her haircut looks good.” 

“Oh?” 

“Beautiful, even.” 

She presses her lips together to keep from smiling. “How kind of you.” 

“I think so.” 

“I’m sure she appreciates it.” They’ve reached the door and Eva pulls it open. “Sorry I can’t help you find her.” 

“I think she got the message.” And Eva pulls her through the door. 

They move to the side and Eva glares at her. “What the fuck was that?” 

“Hm?” 

“Don’t play stupid,” Eva scoffs. “I said to avoid Edo, not flirt with him.” 

“Flirt with him?” Her eyebrows furrow together and she frowns. Flirt with Edoardo? Whoever thought that was a possibility? “We were just talking.” 

“That’s the problem, it’s never just talking with you two,” Eva says and pulls a hand through her hair. “I can’t believe I thought this would be easy.” 

Eva’s words carve a hole in Eleonora’s stomach and she shakes her head earnestly. “It will be easy, I promise.” 

Eva looks at her again, chilling her even more. This disagreement is becoming much more serious than Eleonora thought it would ever be. The freedom she felt from cutting her hair dissipates and the world reforms around her.  She says, “I promise, no more talking to him.” 

Eva nods and starts walking down the hallway toward her classroom, parting with a, “Not until he comes to his senses.” 

Eleonora waves a half-hearted goodbye as Eva turns around and peeks out the window next to her. In the courtyard, Edoardo leans against a column under the balcony, scrolling through his phone, and she sighs, whispering to herself, “When is that going to be?” 

—

Scrolling through her Instagram that Saturday night, late in bed, Eleonora makes the mistake of clicking on Edoardo’s story, the Ban still slow to root in her mind. 

He’s in Milan, the first picture tells her, a picture of a skyscraper with a geotag and a smiling emoji. She exits his story, goes to his profile, and tabs to his followers. For a moment she watches the cursor blink in the search bar before typing in ‘Incanti.’ Several accounts pop up, a few she recognizes as more of Eva and Edoardo’s cousins, but two catch her eye first: Andrea Incanti and Stefano Incanti. Again, she hesitates, and clicks through to Stefano’s account. 

Much to Eleonora’s surprise, Edoardo’s father is more active than Edoardo himself. His profile is public (Edoardo’s is private) and his more recent post was two days ago and the next only a five days earlier. Even Silvia doesn’t post that much. 

Before swiping back to Edoardo’s account, she takes time to scroll through Stefano’s. Edoardo’s only been living back in the house for a month and a half, but he’s already in several pictures. Besides Stefano himself, Edoardo and his brother seem to seem to be Stefano's most frequent posts. She clicks on one of Andrea and Stefano outside a skyscraper in Milan (according to the geotag). The caption makes her mind spin: “my favorite son (don’t tell edo [winking emoji])” 

She frowns, but swipes back to Edoardo’s profile and clicks on his story again. After the skyscraper is a picture of him, his brother, and his father at a gala of some sort, Edoardo classy in a blue suit. Both his dad and his brother are dressed similarly, top three buttons of their shirts undone and facial hair trimmed to perfection. Edoardo seems out of place in comparison, shirt buttoned to the collar (not that it makes him any less attractive, her mind helpfully supplies), hair a curly mess, and face free of stubble. 

The next (and final picture) is a blurry selfie of Edoardo and a brunette, hair a similar length to Eleonora’s new cut and eyes a piercing green. She pouts and Edoardo squints at the camera, flash clearly going off, and a bright pink lipstick mark is smeared on his cheek just above the corner of his mouth. His arm is pulled tight around the girl’s shoulder, fist positioned just below her chin, and it looks like either one could be sitting on the other’s lap. A profile tag sits in the corner and Eleonora clicks on it without thinking. 

The girl’s name is Eliana. 

Eleonora does yet another thing without thinking: she swipes back to Edoardo’s story, clicks on the message arrow at the bottom, types “looks like fun,” and hits send without a second thought. 

The story closes after a few seconds and then her screen does as well, and she stares at her reflection in the darkness. “What the fuck did you just do?” 

—

Monday between two of her afternoon classes, she finds herself sitting on the windowsill in the stairwell, watching people walk by. She has a break, luckily, and is using it to ignore the constant buzzing of her phone. Her mother did _not_ come home this weekend, but saw pictures of Eleonora’s haircut this morning and has been texting nonstop since. Eleonora figures if she ignores Isidora long enough she’ll just drop the matter, but knows in her heart of hearts that she’ll call her mother as soon as she gets home from school to explain. 

She sighs and tosses her phone into the top of her bag. 

Only once she looks up does she realizes she’s no longer alone on the windowsill. Edoardo sits on the other side, back pressed into the frame, and smiles at her when she glances over. “How are you?” 

Her eyes find a spot on the wall across the stairwell.

Edoardo chuckles. “So we really aren’t talking, are we?” 

He moves in her peripherals and she knows he’s shrugging, she’s seen him do it a million times, and internally she curses how well she knows him. “I mean, it’s fine if we aren’t—”

“It is?” She can’t help herself, voice icy and eyes flickering over. Even the thought of Edoardo being okay with any of this tugs her heartstrings even more taunt than they already are. A half smile curves over his lips and she turns back to the spot on the wall. 

He continues speaking like she hadn’t interrupted him. “But you need to make that clear. I’m getting mixed messages.” 

It’s a shitty pun and she almost tells him that, peeking over again, but she steels her resolve and slips down off the windowsill. Her tongue gets the better of her as she passes him, but her voice is more solemn than fiery: “It won’t happen again.” 

His expression morphs in an instant, lips downturned and parting, eyebrows furrowing, and he half stands, “Ele—”

She hurries down the stairs without a backwards glance. 

—

Two weeks later, Eleonora curls into a ball on her side under her blankets in bed, phone pressed to her ear as Eva cries on the other line. “I just—I don’t understand why he would say those things! We’re his family—I’m his family! He’s my—my brother and I don’t—Ele, why?” 

“Shhh,” Eleonora coos, her own tears running freely down her cheeks and tries not to sniffle too loudly. “Eva, shhhh, deep breaths—”

“My pa-parents _raised him_ and he’s taking his dad’s fuck-ucking word because of what?” Eva’s sobs split her words and Eleonora’s heart in two and she ducks her head further toward her chest. She wishes she had a car or that Filippo was home to walk with her to the bus and then ride to the Brighi’s so she could gather Eva into her arms and hold her until they both stopped shaking. “Because o-of blood? Bullshit, I _am_ blood—I can’t believe him, Ele why?” 

“I don’t know, Eva, I don’t know,” she whispers and grasps at the straws Eva’s given her: Edoardo came over for dinner earlier that night, an attempt from all parties to reconcile what happened when he moved out. Stefano was brought up, maybe? and it was like a switch was flipped, Edoardo could not stop talking about him and then— 

“He fucking, Ele, he said they never cared about him, my parents,” Eva sobs and Eleonora’s heart runs cold. Her unoccupied hand curls into a fist and she threads her arm underneath her knees, drawing her body’s coil tighter. “He said _I_ never cared about him.” 

“That’s not true, Eva,” is all she can think to say, but it makes Eva sob harder. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about—”

“I don’t—I don’t understand, Ele _why_ —”

—

Sana finds her on the roof of the school during lunch the next day, a mid-October breeze rustling by. She sits down next to Eleonora and pulls a brown paper bag out of her backpack. She holds it out to Eleonora, studiously ignoring her in favor of their maths homework, and says, “Trade me.” 

“I’m not done yet.” 

“You promised I could check my work against yours.” 

“And I’m not done yet.” 

“Neither am I.” Eleonora hopes her eyes aren’t still red from last night and looks over at Sana. She shakes the bag and smiles. “Trade me.” 

Fuming a little, Eleonora passes her notebook and pen over and takes the bag without a word. Sana raises her eyebrows at it before turning to Eleonora’s notebook. “Open it, my mom made _baklava_ this morning and sent too much for me to eat alone.” 

Eleonora does so and peeks inside, a sugary sweet scent wafting up. “It’s just on the top.” She picks the unfamiliar _baklava_ , wrapped in white paper, out of the bag before setting on the ledge between them. She unwraps it and blushes as her stomach growls. Sana says nothing, but when Eleonora peeks over at her, the corners of her mouth are upturned. 

The _baklava_ is covered in crushed pistachios and for that reason only, Eleonora picks one up out of the paper and bites into it, a moan escaping her lips as she tastes it. “These are so good.” 

Again, Sana looks smug. “I’m glad you like them, I’ll tell my mother.” 

She finishes her _baklava_ and squints out at the city panning out from the school, licking the sticky residue off her fingers. Sana murmurs, “You got fourteen wrong.” 

“Mm, sorry.” 

“Forgot a negative somewhere, I think.” The paper of her notebook rustles as she flips to the next page. “Everything else matches, so far.” 

“That’s good.” 

For a moment, Eleonora closes her eyes and lets the sun warm her skin and the wind pull at her clothes and, if she thinks hard enough, it’s almost like being back on the dock at the lake, before everything happened. Sana’s voice breaks her reverie. “Have another.” 

“I couldn’t.” She looks over at Sana and offers her the _baklava_. There’s seven left. 

Sana frowns. “You expect me to eat all the rest by myself?” 

Eleonora sighs and picks up another one without complaint. “You’re not being subtle.” 

“I’m not trying to be.” Sana pulls one off the paper. 

“When did Eva tell you?” 

“She didn’t. One of my friends in Pescara has an eating disorder,” Sana explains and Eleonora listens to her chew, all her muscles tense, and lets the words ring around her head. _Eating disorder_. Of course, she knew it was called that already, that’s what her doctor says, and the dietician, and her therapist, and what her mother whispers on her work calls, and what she herself can’t say out loud. “You seem stressed; I just want to make sure you’re alright.”  

It’s the first conversation Eleonora’s had with someone where she’s been this candid. Telling Eva and Edoardo hurt so much she thought she might pass out, but last night left her so drained that today there’s no emotions to cloud her conversation with Sana, no details to get caught up in, just truth. “It’s scary to call it that.” 

“To call it what it is?” Sana sounds curious, not confused or mad or frustrated. 

Eleonora looks down at her lap, _baklava_ in neat rectangles on the white paper. “It makes it feel real.” 

Sana crosses one leg over the other, Eleonora’s notebook forgotten under her hand. “Wouldn’t that be a good thing? Once you know what something is, it’s easier not to be afraid of it.”

Eleonora turns her head toward Sana, eyes still focused on the ground. She squints, mind whirring. “What do you mean?” 

“We have a definition for everything, now, and we’re lucky for it.” Sana picks a _baklava_ from the paper in Eleonora’s hand. “And that means, when we can identify it, we know what, exactly, makes it different from something else.” 

Sana pops the entire _baklava_ into her mouth and reaches into the brown paper bag between them, pulling out a plastic baggy with fig slices in it. She passes one over to Eleonora and takes one for herself and they sit in silence, Sana taking bites out of her slice and Eleonora sucking the juice as she thinks over their discussion. 

“It could be just not eating,” Sana says after a while. “And that’s much more ambiguous, much safer than calling it an eating disorder. It could be anything if you were just not eating: sickness, loss of appetite, depression. When you define it, you give it limits on what it can do to you.” 

Eleonora hums around the fig in her mouth, before pulling it out and looking over at Sana. It’s not a question when she says, “Even if it becomes real.” 

Sana nods and picks another fig slice. “Even then.” 

—

Later that day, Eleonora leaves her last period, English literature, and Edoardo is waiting in the hallway outside her classroom. Thankfully, Eva did not come to class today and doesn’t have to see him after last night. She glances to the right, spots him leaning against the wall, and turns to the left. Her heart chills and goosebumps raise on her skin and her dehydration headache returns, back from a night full of crying. 

They both know its easiest to make it to the bike rack she uses if she passes him and it’s a blatant attempt on his part to get her to speak to him by standing there, so she can’t take the bait, not that she wants to. The Edoardo Ban has become worse than she has ever imagined: everything, it seems, is his fault even if Eva would give an arm and a leg for it to be the opposite.

Even if Eleonora would, too. 

“I take it Eva told you about last night?” He asks, catching up to her easily as she makes it to the stairwell. 

She entertains the idea of ignoring him only for a moment, a sick fury building in her stomach. How dare he act so nonchalant. “More or less.” 

“I’m guessing less.” 

She looks over her shoulder at him, plastic smile forming on her mouth. “If you hadn’t been such an asshole, there wouldn’t be a ‘less.’” 

He sighs, tinged with frustration, and she keeps her pace down the stairs. “Okay.” 

She pushes through the door to a first floor corridor, emptying slowly, and doesn’t hold it open for him as she goes. She hopes it slows him up a bit, she doesn’t know how much longer she can face him without flying into a rage, or worse, crying. 

Three tearful hours on the phone last night fuel her pace to the exit. 

Edoardo, apparently, doesn’t understand the ‘fuck off’ energy she’s trying to radiate toward him, because he follows quite easily through the door and down the hallway, a step behind her. “I take it Eva didn’t tell you the whole story?” 

“I doubt she understands the whole story well enough to tell it.” Eleonora ignores the door Edoardo holds open for her, instead pushing through its partner to the back of the school where the bike racks sit. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

She finds her bike and pulls a key from her pocket. Shrugging, she bends down to wiggle it into the lock and slips the cord out from around the rack. “Someone’s been lying, or not telling the whole truth, and it’s not her.” 

“Enlighten me.” He steps forward and blocks her path, brows furrowing. He looks more frustrated than angry and the need to know exact details boils inside her, but she can’t betray Eva by giving into her wants. She can’t betray her _own_ feelings on the matter, either, even if doing so feels inevitable; that’s a problem for another day. 

She focuses on the little lump under his shirt that she knows is the cross necklace his mother gave him years ago instead of looking at his face. “Please move.” 

“Ele,” he whispers, ducking his head so their eyes meet. 

She clenches her jaw. “I’m not going to ask again.” 

After a moment in which the blood rushes through her ears and drowns out everything except the sound of his shallow breaths, he steps away, shoving his hands into his pockets and straightening to his full height. 

She pushes her bike out of the racks and to the street and swings her leg over the seat without a backwards glance. Her phone vibrates in her pocket. 

> _14:37, from_ **Edoardo**    
>  We’re not done talking about this 

—

November rolls around and has Eleonora thinking of last fall, of her ever-growing hunger, of ending up in a hospital bed, and she feels wide awake in comparison. Everyday it’s easier to eat a little more, count calories a little less, detach herself from stressors. The beginning of school made everything harder (not to mention the Edoardo Ban and ensuing fuckery), but everyday she’s got Sana watching her during lunch and Eva making sure she eats something after school and, even though she’s been ignoring him, been an ass to him, Edoardo still texts her every time he sees her during lunch. 

> _11:36, from_ **Edoardo Incanti** :   
>  Do you have food today? 

She looks up from her phone, sat next to Sana, and glances over her shoulder across the courtyard to where he stands. Chicco and Fede are with him, their backs to her, and talking loudly while Nathan and Rocco pass a football between them a meter or so away. Edoardo pays attention to neither, eyes already on her when she looks over and she presses her lips together before turning back to Sana. “Do you know where Eva is?” 

“She went with Silvia to check out the radio stuff in the office,” Sana says and looks over her shoulder as well. Eleonora can see the moment she spots Edoardo, probably still looking at her, because her lips purse and she shifts her eyes back to Eleonora’s face. “They’ll probably be a few more minutes if you want to go talk to him.” 

“Do you think I should?” Her eyes find him again. He’s talking to Fede, now, but she watches his gaze flick over every few seconds. Neither of them smile when their eyes meet. 

It’s been a long three weeks since they last spoke. Her anger comes and goes in waves, low tide at the moment.

“Eva asked you not to?” 

“Yes.” 

“I wouldn’t, then.” 

Eleonora looks at her. “You’re a better friend than I am.” 

“You haven’t gone over, yet.” Sana tilts her head. “What’s going on with him, anyway?” 

Eleonora shrugs and starts picking at her cuticles, sleepless, tearful night on her mind. “He went to the Brighi’s two weeks ago and said some awful things. Eva won’t tell me everything that happened, but I think it has something to do with his father. I don’t know.” She bites her lip again and thinks of the slim chance she has in front of her, anger level and Edoardo’s presence finally aligned. “He might tell me if I asked.” If she was rational about it. 

“Sounds like a mess.” Sana pulls a persimmon out of her lunch. 

Eleonora shakes her head and stands. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” 

Edoardo, watching her still, peels off from his friends, too, and meets her in an alcove under the balcony. She folds her arms across her chest and purses her lips as he walks up to her. “Ele—“

Her anger flows in like high tide. “What the fuck is going on?” 

“Nice to see you too,” Edoardo says, and she can’t believe the little smile that grows on his lips. “How have you been? You do have lunch today, right?” 

“I’m fine, I’ve got food, you don’t need to worry,” she all but snaps. “Let me ask again: what the fuck is going on?” 

“You’ll have to be more specific.” 

She can’t believe him right now; despite his claims of their conversation being _not over_ , he’s tight lipped. “With the Brighi’s, what else would I be talking about?” 

He shrugs, his smile turns sharp, and he gestures between them. “I don’t know, we haven’t talked in weeks; what’s that about?” 

“No, you don’t get to change the conversation topic right now, you _have_ to tell me what’s going on.” She glares, but it doesn’t faze him. 

“Fine.” She squints, there’s a condition coming, that was too easy— “Would you like to talk over dinner?” 

She opens her mouth, angry words already forming, but Sana calls across the courtyard. “Ele, c’mon.” 

“We are _not_ done talking about this,” she promises, voice hard and his text assuring the same swimming to the front of her mind, and Edoardo looks delighted at the thought before she storms away. 

He calls after her, “I’ll text you,” and she flips him off over her shoulder. 

She slides back into her seat as Eva and Silvia enter the courtyard and whispers a thanks to Sana. 

“I hope you got what you were looking for.” 

Eleonora meets her eyes. “Not even close.” 

—

That weekend, Eleonora finds herself walking to Rocco Martucci’s door, Fede and Sana on either side of her while Eva and Silvia walk in front. The Edoardo Ban does not include his friends, so when Federico invited Eva and the girls to their party this weekend, she decided to say yes. Eleonora tries not to see it as a chance to drink everything away, especially because Eva claims it’s not, so she agrees to come as damage control (and also to possibly corner Edoardo and demand actual answers from him). Not only does she have to keep a drunk Eva from confronting Edoardo, she knows Giovanni is coming as well, which means Laura might be in tow and Eva might get jealous (another fun development this fall: Laura finally locked Giovanni down after two years of flirting _just_ as Eva decided she had the hots for him. Eleonora had heard enough jealous complaints at this point and tonight wouldn’t be different). That combined with Federico, whose hormones and apparent hard-on for Eva (also a new development from the fall) both know no bounds, means the night is shaping up to be one for the history books. 

Eleonora rubs her temples as they wait at the door. Rocco, the asshole, decided to hire a doorman for his high end house party and make a list and it’s taking way too long for the man to find Eva’s name, especially considering how close it is to the beginning of the alphabet. He disappears inside, the second doorman puffing out his chest, and Eleonora rests her head on Fede’s shoulder. 

Fede reaches up and pats her cheek. “Don’t worry, Ele, we’re almost inside! And you can’t get sad yet, that’s no fun until you’re drunk.” 

Eleonora lifts her head and Fede waggles her eyebrows when their eyes meet and Eleonora can’t help but laugh. Fede has proved nothing but loyal through the semester so far and Eleonora can’t imagine facing the night without her. 

Eva turns around. “Ele, if I dance with Federico tonight—” she cuts herself off. 

Eleonora frowns. “What?” 

“I just—” Eva stutters and scrambles for words. “What if _he_ sees and thinks it’s some, some peace offering?” 

“It won’t look like that.” 

Eva bites her lip. “You promise?” 

Before Eleonora can answer, the doorman returns and it’s just their luck that he found Edoardo to verify their identities. He claps the doorman on the shoulder and ducks down to whisper in his ear before gesturing them inside. Eva shoves into Edoardo’s shoulder as she enters, a frown on her face and a frantic Silvia on her arm, and Fede and Sana pass with smiles and thanks. Eleonora finds herself alone and Edoardo ducks back inside with her, leaving the stirring mass in line behind them. 

“I’m glad you could make it.” He holds the door open for her and takes her jacket once she’s pulled it off. 

“That makes one of us.” He snorts and she looks down the hall toward the kitchen; her friends have disappeared into the house and she worries for a moment about finding them, especially keeping an eye on Eva, but Edoardo holds his hand out for her purse and she passes it over after a moment of hesitation. 

He nods at the stairs and says, “I’ll go put your stuff in a room.” 

There’s a split second in which she has to choose to go find her friends or follow after him, and she finds herself climbing the stairs. 

On the landing she asks, “Do you want to tell me what’s going on, now?” 

He looks over his shoulder at her and grins. “You didn’t have to come up with me.” 

She folds her arms across her chest and they enter a bedroom down the hall. “If Eva saw me with you she’d disown me. _I’m_ thinking about disowning me; so this is the only time I can talk to you tonight.” 

“I thought we agreed to dinner?” 

“I never said yes.” 

“You didn’t say ‘no,’ either.” He tilts his head at her, the same expression he’s been using for nine years now when she doesn’t agree painted on his face. “Besides, it’s not exactly party material.” 

She looks away from him, focusing instead on a spot on the wall above his shoulder, but watches him in her peripherals. “Sunday night, seven o‘clock, I’m coming to yours and there better be cookies.” 

“Sunday?” 

“Is that not going to work.” She doesn’t ask, just slides her eyes over to him. Sure, it’s annoying that Eva’s made her pick sides but Edoardo’s not exactly helping right now. 

“My dad’s home this week, I don’t know if you want to meet him…” he trails off and shrugs. 

“Well, it’s tonight or it’s Sunday,” Eleonora says and steps closer to him, taking her time to look from his shoes to his face and raising her eyebrows. Why is he unsure of his father _now_ ? “And why shouldn’t I meet the man behind the argument? He _is_ the reason why you’re being such a dickhead to the Brighi’s, right?” 

His face hardens like she’s never seen directed at her before and for once a fire burns in her belly instead of fear. Ducking his head to better meet her eyes, he whispers, “You’ll have to wait for tomorrow, Eleonora,” and slips past her to the door. 

She turns as he goes, arms falling to her sides and anger dissipating as face as it appeared, and says on impulse, “Edo.” 

It stops him in the doorway. She doesn’t make it a habit to call many people by nicknames, she doesn’t think she’s _ever_ called him that before, but hearing her full name out of his mouth makes her head spin, and not in a good way. The perfect way to top off her confusion from the past two months. He looks over his shoulder and when she doesn’t say anything more, just opens her mouth, raising her hand slightly, but saying nothing, he nods at her with a funny half smile forming on his lips and disappears down the hallway. 

Her phone starts buzzing in her hand but she can’t tear her eyes from the doorway. 

—

“Ele, where the fuck have you been?” Fede calls, happy smile on her face. Eleonora finds her and Silvia and Sana dancing among the mass in the living room almost a half hour later, mind dialed and fists clenched. There’s an urge itching at the back of her throat but she swallows it down and tries to ignore how it swims through her system. Sana takes one of her fists in her hands and massages it open until the blood rushes back into her palm and her fingers tingle. 

“Nowhere, I just got a little lost is all.” She takes a deep breath and forces a smile on her face. That urge itches and itches, but the only one here who would know is Sana and— “Where’s Eva?” 

“Uh,” Silvia starts, body swaying to the music and eyes tracking through the crowd. Eleonora knows who she’s looking for and the image of Edoardo slipping out the door burns in her eyes like a brand. Sana presses down hard on the center of her palm and her mind pulls back to the present. “She said something about the bar—” because of course, the Martucci's have a bar in their _house_ , “—and Federico? Or maybe Giovanni.” 

“Shit.” Eleonora presses her unoccupied hand to her forehead, smoothing her fingers out of the fist, and now her hands tremble. It’s crawling back up her throat and she shakes her head. She has to find Eva before something happens to either of them. “Um, I’ll be back in a few minutes.” 

“Do you want someone to come with you?” Sana asks, a glint in her eyes and Eleonora wants badly to say yes, wants to pull her and Fede and Silvia out into the hallway and explain why her body shakes and why she gets lost in her brain and why she has trouble eating (even if Sana partly knows), but Eva might be on the road to alcohol poisoning and that takes precedence. 

“No,” she says and hopes Sana understands she’s being honest. “I’m just going to go find Eva and make sure she hasn’t killed herself, or anything. I won’t be very long.” 

Eva is indeed at the bar, but it’s not Federico or Giovanni she’s with; Martino instead sits on a stool with his back pressed to the bar watching Eva show off her shoddy dance moves a meter or so away. Eleonora sighs, Eva might be three sheets to the wind but at least she’s not doing anything too embarrassing. She slides onto the stool next to Martino. “Hi.” 

He leans over and gives her cheek a kiss and turns back to watching Eva with a smile. “How are you?” 

“Fine.” She rubs her hands down her thighs so they don’t fist again. “Better now that I know she’s got good supervision.” 

“Yes,” Martino says, chuckling. “That is my job for the night: babysitter.” 

“Oh, c’mon, it’s kind of fun watching her.” Eleonora grins at him and slips down from the stool. “And it’s even more fun if you dance with her.” 

Once she joins her, Eva flings her arm around Eleonora’s waist and yells a hello in her ear. For a moment, Eleonora just enjoys dancing next to Eva, pushing everything out of her mind and letting the beat of the music control the movement of her body. Her cares disappear: food, her mother, Edoardo, all that’s left is the joy of dancing with her best friend. 

Eva pinches her waist after a few seconds, slamming Eleonora back into reality, and nods at Martino. “What do you think we have to do to get him to join?” 

Eleonora, mind full and stomach knotted once more, shrugs, turning to Martino with a wicked grin. “Let’s find out.”


	5. what an unfortunate start to my morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ED content warning 
> 
> this chapter also has a scene of adult/minor sexual harassment 
> 
> stay safe lovelies

> _19:14, to_ **Edoardo Incanti**  
>  I’m outside 

Eleonora shoves her phone in her back pocket and peers through the locked gate at Edoardo’s house. The first floor lights are all on, lighting up the floor to ceiling windows and illuminating the darkness of the yard. Inside, the fancy furniture, delicate and ornate and unused, sits as she remembers it from her visit at the beginning of the school year, and she wonders if the clear excess of the Incanti’s house—mansion, more like—should’ve tipped her off that something was going to go wrong. 

Nothing moves in the house for several long seconds. No one is on the first floor that she can see and the second floor has more sensible windows that don’t expose the whole interior to the outside world. Several are lit up and she watches a shadow cross two of them. Edoardo. 

> _19:15, from_ **Edoardo Incanti**  
>  Okay :) 

She glares at the smiley face when his message pops up. Is he really not nervous about this? Knotted stomach, trembling hands, pulse sky rocketing, she can’t imagine being anything but nervous about this conversation. 

The peaceful emptiness of the first floor is disturbed as Edoardo appears. She steps closer to the gate, watching him closely as he slides on a pair of shoes and looks over his shoulder back into the house. Is someone else with him? He did say something about his dad being home at Rocco’s party last night… 

It takes him a moment to exit his house and start crossing his lawn to the gate, and she shuffles backward, hoping not to seem too eager; she left her house late specifically to clue him into her distaste, no need to ruin that image, now. 

A few meters from the gate, he looks up and spots her, and the half-smile that grows on his face makes her heart spasm. She tells it to quiet; just because Edoardo used to be a sensible person she enjoyed being around doesn’t mean she should forget the things he’s done, the heartbreak he’s caused. Pressing her lips together, she thinks of Eva; there’s no reason to give into old feelings, let this dinner turn habitual. 

“Ele,” he greets her, hands in the pockets of his jeans and mouth still half-upturned. His eyes are hard, though. What answers will she really get tonight? “How are you?” 

“Fine.” She swallows as he steps to the gate, undoing the latch from the inside and pushing it open. “Hungry.” 

It’s an honest answer, but he clenches his jaw as she passes through the gate, and she wonders if it was the smartest thing to say. If he gets hung up on how she’s doing, he might never get around to telling her what happened with the Brighi’s. 

Pulling the gate shut, he starts leading her back to the house. She stares at the light bleeding out onto the lawn and asks, “How are  _ you _ ?” 

“I’ve been better.” His legs are longer than hers, now, they’ve been longer for a while, and he walks slow next to her toward his house. “Do you want to eat or talk first?” 

_ Talk _ . “Ah, eat.” 

“Okay.” A silent beat passes and she peeks over at him. Lip between his teeth, he stares at the ground. “My dad might join us, is that okay?” He looks at her, pace slowing even more. “For dinner, I mean. Not the talking.” 

She nods, pursing her lips. “Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

He leads her into the house, holding the door open for her and pointing down the hall to the kitchen. She doesn’t take off her shoes, but she sets her bag by the front door and follows him until she comes face to face with a cupboard door. He’s rummaging around in a pantry and Eleonora takes a peek around while he pulls out what he needs for dinner. 

The kitchen itself looks barely different than the first time she visited, counters still bare, only a few dishes in the sink, cabinets full of food she recognizes from her regular perusals of the Brighi’s kitchen, and she wonders if Edoardo is the one doing the shopping rather than his father. Betting he still buys the same brand of orange juice as the Brighi’s, even though she detests it, she opens the fridge and finds three or four open bottles of wine instead, the juice shoved back and to the left. Frowning, she reaches for the juice and accidentally clinks one of the bottles against another, and Edoardo glances over at her. “Ah, sorry.” 

She raises an eyebrow and the juice at him. “Turn to drinking in your sorrow?” 

He sets the cookie tin down on the counter, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Something like that. Since when do you drink orange juice?” 

“Since when do you drink—” she glances over her shoulder back into the fridge. “ _ Uva Rara _ ? I know we’ve never drank together but I figured you’d pick something more southern than that.” 

“Are you a wine connoisseur now?” 

“Only when my mother’s home.” She bites her lip and puts the orange juice back, looking over the items strewn on the counter. “Are you making carbonara?” 

“Yes, now get away from the fridge,” he says, and closes the cabinet. He shoos her to the other side of the kitchen to sit on a stool. “I’ve tried cooking with you enough to know you’ll burn anything you touch.” 

She puts her stool next to the counter and pulls the cookie tin over. “Mm, that was purposeful.” 

“Really?” He looks dubious and pulls out various pans from another cupboard. 

“No calories to gain from what you can’t eat,” she says and immediately closes her eyes. It’s becoming increasingly easier to talk about her disorder, now, and being in this kitchen with Edoardo feels like putting on an old pair of shoes, but that doesn’t mean telling him isn’t completely idiotic.  _ Stupid _ . What happened to not letting him get hung up on her? She peeks over to find him motionless, watching her. “I’ve gotten much better since then, but neither you nor Eva ever let me cook. Filo loves my risotto.” 

His eyes dart over her face, down her body, and, just to make the point, she bites into the cookie she’s been rolling between her fingers. “He does, you can ask him.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” Watching her take another bite, he turns back to his preparations. The atmosphere of the kitchen, serious after her flub, doesn’t lighten and her stomach knots itself again. It’ll be a while before dinner’s actually ready, and she wonders if now is the right time to start asking him about his fight with the Brighi’s. It very well could end in  _ another _ fight and then what? They eat silently, stewing in their emotions, and he insists on walking her to the bus stop when she leaves? 

Eleonora takes another cookie from the tin. 

Luckily for her, she doesn’t have to make the decision quite yet. Just as Edoardo pulls the pasta off the stove, asking, “Do you still like veggies with absolutely everything?” footsteps sound on the stairs. 

“Um, yes,” she says, picking at her thumbnail and pulling her lip between her teeth. She can’t very well interrogate Edoardo about an argument he had that was likely about his father when his father is coming to join them. 

“Okay.” He looks over at her, eyebrows raised a fraction. It makes his expression brighter and her nerves ease slightly to know he’s not worrying over her eating habits at the moment. “Do you want to cut some up or—”

“Edo, I didn’t realize you were cooking tonight,” a deep voice says from down the hall and Edoardo’s shoulders tense in time with Eleonora’s entire body. “Or I wouldn’t have made plans. Listen, do you mind if I—hello.” 

Stefano Incanti looks nothing like his son. Shorter, broader, trimmed beard and close cut, straight hair, the only thing Eleonora can peg Edoardo inheriting from him is the charisma that seems to ooze off of him in waves. He stands in the doorway near Edoardo for a moment, finishes tying his tie, and crosses to the other side of the kitchen, hand extended. “I’m Edoardo’s dad, Stefano.” 

She shakes it, noting the differences between his thick fingers and Edoardo’s thin ones, and gives him a close-lipped smile. “Eleonora.” 

He steps back and gestures at the clothes he’s wearing. “What do you think, can I wear my son’s clothing?” 

“Ah—” it’s just a blue button up, nothing special, and she darts her eyes over to Edoardo. His expression is blank, careful, almost, and she looks back at Stefano. The cut would suit him better if he was twenty years younger, but she suspects he’s hoping for that. “Sure.” 

“Fantastic.” He grins and paces over to Edoardo, straightening his tie as he goes. His voice isn’t quite soft enough when he says, looking over his shoulder at Eleonora before meeting his son’s gaze, “You know, you don’t  _ have _ to make dinner for every good fuck you have.” 

Her stomach turns and Edoardo’s eyes find hers for a brief moment. “We’re not—” He looks at his father. “Why would you say that?” 

Stefano shrugs, claps Edoardo on the shoulder, and stages-whispers, again, “It’s an old trick I used to pull to get girls to come around again back in college; in high school, even. Good to know you can pick it up without me teaching you.” 

She turns her eyes to the countertop and tries to ignore the twist of her stomach. Is it even worth it to stick around and wait for a reason he defended someone like  _ this _ ? 

“We’re just friends.” Edoardo isn’t whispering, but his voice is low enough that she can just barely make out his words. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and slides on the stool until she’s just perched on it, feet itching to run. She prays she doesn’t vomit.

“You can’t tell the girls you’re fucking that you’re friends with them, it gives them the wrong impression.” With that, her eyes dart up to Edoardo’s face to catch the brief flicker of rage cross his perfectly blank expression. Stefano backs up a few steps, turning to her before Edoardo can say anything, and waving. “It was nice to meet you, Eleonora.” 

She nods, too stunned to say anything to his face, and he disappears out of the kitchen again without a backward glance. 

For several long seconds, they sit in silence, almost waiting for Stefano’s presence to air out of the room, and a door slams before either of them speak again. Edoardo turns his eyes from the floor to her and starts, “I don’t—”

“I’m gonna leave,” she interrupts, slipping off the stool, heading for the foyer, and ignoring the pressure building behind her eyes. 

“Ele, wait.” He follows after her. “Can’t we talk about this?” 

“Talk?” She picks her bag up off the floor and whirls around to face him, mouth drawn in an unhappy line and uncontrollable tears welling in her eyes. “Talk? You want to talk about  _ that _ ?” 

He looks as upset as she is, but she can’t find it in herself to sympathize with him. “I can explain—”

“You don’t get to, anymore,” she spits, punctuating each word. “Eva said when you all fought it was about your dad, that you repeated bullshit he told you and defended him. I was ready to listen to you, Edo.” She almost bites her tongue off, that damn nickname. “I was sure there was a good reason, I wanted to know what was so special about him that you would throw away your family, the people that care about you  _ so much _ —” she points at the hallway Stefano disappeared down. “But after  _ that _ ?” 

She swallows, Edoardo’s dark eyes darting between hers, and she swears her heart breaks in two. This is not how the night was supposed to go, how she wanted it to go, and a part of her wants to die because of it. “I can’t be friends with someone who picks  _ that _ over people like the Brighi’s.” 

His expression is still carefully blank, only his eyes, rimmed with a thin, wet line, betray any emotion he’s feeling, and she dares to wait for a second or two or three for him to say  _ anything _ to make her eat her words. He doesn’t, just presses his lips together and looks away, and that might be the worst part. 

She turns to leave, pulling the front door open, and he doesn’t try to stop her.

—

“Did you get any of my texts last night?” Eva asks as Eleonora pulls herself into the windowsill the next morning. 

“Ah, no,” she lies, thinking of the several frustrating hours she spent laying in bed staring at her ceiling as her conversation with Edoardo ran over and over through her mind. “I couldn’t find my charger and my phone died.” 

“Mm, okay.” Eva sounds unconvinced and Eleonora forces herself to look over and raise her eyebrows, craft a careful image of interest and not one of guilt. “Silvia just invited everyone over last night and when you didn’t respond…” 

“Oh, I’m sorry I missed it.” 

“Yeah, me too.” Eva purses her lips, tilts her head as Eleonora looks down at her dangling feet. “Everything okay?” 

_ No, everything is shit _ . “It’s just—stuff with my mom,” she lies again. “She said she was going to be home every weekend this month because of last year and it’s the first weekend and she  _ didn’t _ come home, and I know we went out Saturday so I wouldn’t have been with her anyway, it just—” she pauses, looking for a word adequate to explain her feelings and realizes she isn’t lying at all; underneath all the bullshit about Edoardo is an ache to have her mother give her a hug, whisk her back to a time where the only thing she worried about what which dress she’d wear to primary school instead of misogynistic fathers, “—sucks.” 

Eva snakes her arm around Eleonora’s waist and pulls her close, squeezing gently. “I’m sorry, Ele.” 

“It’s okay.” She holds Eva’s head to her shoulder for a moment before returning her hand to her lap. “Was last night fun?” 

“Oh, it was great. Lucky for me, Silvia got a hint and didn’t say a word about  _ Eduardo _ ,  _ and _ she had drinks,” Eva says, laughing a little. “What did you end up doing?” 

_ Dying _ . “Um—”  _ Listening to Stefano Incanti assume I’m a girl his son is fucking _ . “Filo took me to check out the new greenhouse across town.” 

“Was it nice?” 

_ Not at all _ . “Yes.” 

“Did you buy anything?” 

_ Only a new appreciation for the Edoardo Ban _ . “No, it was all kind of expensive.” 

Eva frowns. “That sucks.” 

“Yeah, it was kind of shitty.” Not a lie, but time to change the subject. “Did you finish the assignment for English Literature?” 

“Ele, my mom is already getting on me about homework, you can’t, too—”

—

That Friday, Eleonora paces slowly from one side of an alcove to the other, reading over the text on her phone. 

> _11:03, from_ **Mami**  
>  I can’t make it home this weekend.   
>  Be sure to eat something and make sure Filo doesn’t drink too much. I love you. 

According to the group chat, Silvia, Fede, and Sana are on their way to the courtyard and Eva is talking with their English Literature teacher about her grade. Eleonora, meanwhile, thinks she might lose her mind. Her mother, though properly furious over the phone about it, hasn’t been home since Filo cut her hair and Eleonora wonders what will be enough to draw Isidora’s attention back to Rome. And to realize her daughter isn’t a babysitter. 

Her attention is drawn away from her phone for a split second by a door opening across the courtyard. It’s the first week of November, edging into colder temperatures, and the courtyard is no longer the most popular lunch spot in the school (half the reason why she keeps finding herself back here), so she looks to see who’s imposing on her general solitude. Chicco Rodi, Federico Canegallo, and—

Her stomach turns. 

Edoardo spots her almost as soon as he enters, stopping for just a moment as she accidentally lets their eyes meet before following his friends over to a bench. She watches them with her lips pressed together, blood rushing through her ears. Federico and Chicco sit but Edoardo doesn’t, instead standing next to the bench and talking for a moment with them. He nods over in her direction and she opens her phone again before she can see what else they do. 

> _11:16,_ **Eleonora** _to_ **Le Matte**  
>  Let’s go to the cafe for lunch today  

>   
>  _11:16,_ **Eva** _to_ **Le Matte**  
>  Why?   
>  What’s up? 

She debates making something up, wishing Eva hadn’t been the one to respond, until she looks back at the bench to find Edoardo strolling over to her, and panic sets in alongside her anger. 

> _11:16,_ **Eleonora** _to_ **Le Matte**  
>  Edoardo’s in the courtyard   
>  And his friends   
>    
>  _11:17,_ **Eva** _to_ **Le Matte**  
>  Meet you all outside the gates, then? 

As their various affirmations come in, Edoardo reaches the alcove and stops. She shoves her phone into her pocket and, again, makes the mistake of looking at him. Unlike Sunday night, emotions flickers over his face: confusion, worry, hesitance, uncertainty, hurt. It almost makes her laugh. “Ele—”

“Only my friends call me that.” Tone cold, she shoulders her bag and steps around him. He turns as she passes. 

“Can we talk, please?” 

“No.” She heads for the nearest set of doors, anger directing her path. 

“Eleonora!” 

Without a backwards glance, she disappears inside and prides herself on having no further reaction. 

—

She pulls at the bodice of the dress, frowning at herself in the mirror, and turns to look at her side profile. It’s green and gauzy and loose, very pretty on the hanger, but it doesn’t fall right off her shoulders, she decides. Mirror Eleonora turns, pouting and batting her eyelashes, and Eleonora’s throat burns. 

Is this what Stefano saw on Sunday? 

“Mm, what do you think of this, Sil?” Eva asks from the next dressing room over, curtain rustling as one of them moves into the other’s stall. 

No, her hair had been up, she hadn’t worn any makeup. Reaching for her purse, Eleonora pulls out a tissue and carefully wipes her lipstick from her mouth before tying her hair back into a bun like it’d been on Sunday. Mirror Eleonora copies her movements, but becomes more alluring, if anything else, big, big eyes and nothing covering how chapped her lips look, the well worn crease where her teeth fit as easy as a puzzle piece. 

_ You don’t  _ have _ to make dinner for every good fuck you have _ . 

_ We’re not—Why would you say that? _

“Oh, it’s gorgeous!” Silvia gushes, voice slightly muffled. 

Maybe, if she took off the dress, put on her other clothes, it wouldn’t be so bad? She wore a sweatshirt, after all, and an old pair of jeans to Edoardo’s, not a dress designed to draw the eye to her bust, the size of her waist. Mirror Eleonora slips it off, smooth as water, lips pouting, again, into a coy ‘O’ as the fabric hits the floor, while Eleonora fights, thrashes, almost pops several seams, and throws the dress to the ground, mouth opening in a reflexive, silent yell of frustration. 

_ We’re just friends. _

_ You can’t tell the girls you’re fucking that you’re friends with them. _

Eva and Silvia’s chatter fades to a low hum in the back of her mind and her chest heaves as she glares down the image presented to her. 

Mirror Eleonora looks back with hooded eyes, hair falling light as air out of its bun, and fingers tracing along her skin just underneath the bottom of her black bra, and Eleonora wants to scream. 

_ It was nice to meet you, Eleonora. _

She steals her hands away from her ribs, dropping them so she can tap against her hip, shifting from foot to foot, eyes darting over her body. It’s no use, though; Mirror Eleonora just sways in front of her, somehow getting the overhead lights of the dressing room to catch on the curve of her breasts, around her navel, making her black cotton underwear look silky and her ribs achingly—

A brief flash of white catches her eye, and Eleonora thumbs at the raised scar on her side, looking down to stare at her own skin instead of her reflection. Three thin, long lines, the top just thicker than the other two and half a centimeter longer. She gasps, an abrupt, wretched thing, the scar stretching as her lungs fill and her ribcage expands, and she watches it shrink and lengthen and shrink and lengthen until her breathing slows. 

Coughing thickly, she glances up at the mirror to find herself curled like a grotesque question mark around her hand gripping her side. Not even Mirror Eleonora can make that sexy. 

There’s a knock against the wall to her right. Eva, from the other dressing room. “Ele, let me in.” 

“Ah,” she says, noise from the store rushing back to full volume and reality crashing around her shoulders. Hastily, she scoops the dress off the floor, clutching it to her chest, and pulls the curtain open just enough that Eva can slip inside. 

“What do you think?” Eva asks, gesturing down at her dress. It’s midnight blue with a halter top and the hem falls at the middle of Eva’s thighs. 

“It looks fantastic,” Eleonora says, gesturing with one hand and hoping Eva can’t tell how quick her chest heaves. 

Eva bites her lip, turning to the mirror and smoothing her hands down the skirt. Eleonora studies the back of the dress instead of letting her eyes find her reflection again. No need to see what Mirror Eleonora might make of her holding the dress to cover herself. “You’re sure you think it’s pretty?” 

“Yes.” It’s an easy answer to give, Eva really does look stunning, and her heart rate slowly drops. “It’s a beautiful dress and you look beautiful in it.” 

Eva turns to her again, expression unsure and a little embarrassed. Eleonora raises an eyebrow, what— “Do you think Gio would like it?” 

“Gio? Giovanni?” Eleonora asks and Eva nods. “What does he have to do with anything?” 

“I don’t know,” Eva says, adjusting the waist of the dress a little. “I just—care about what he thinks, I guess.”

Hoping her tone doesn’t become too snappy, Eleonora puts a hand on Eva’s shoulder and they both turn back to the mirror. “Mm, okay, well, you shouldn’t buy a dress just because you think a guy might like it, that’s bullshit.” 

Eva laughs and Eleonora steps closer, resting her chin on Eva’s shoulder, eyes flickering to her reflection. Mirror Eleonora is gone, thankfully, and she looks back at Eva, rubbing her hand down Eva’s arm. “If you’re going to buy this dress, you should do it because  _ you _ like it, and because  _ you _ look beautiful in it.” 

She meets Eva’s eyes. “No boy should influence what you think, especially when you’re not even dating him.” 

Eva rolls her eyes, but smiles, and turns around to look Eleonora straight on. “Okay, okay.” 

Eleonora smiles. “Good.” 

Eva pulls at the dress Eleonora is still holding, raising her eyebrows in question. “What’s this, then?” 

“Oh, it didn’t fit,” Eleonora lies, reluctantly letting Eva take it and shake it out to it’s full length. She swallows as Eva frowns. “There wasn’t another one on the rack, either.” 

“That’s a shame, you would’ve looked really good in it.” 

She grabs the hanger off the wall. _You have no_ _idea_. 

—

The following Wednesday, only Eva can make it to lunch, Fede holed up studying for a history test she takes next period, Silvia at a meeting for the restart for the school radio, and Sana home sick. It’s almost a relief to be alone with Eva, again, pretend that they’re sitting at the Brighi’s kitchen table with reruns of  _ the Winx Club _ playing in the background and that Edoardo is with Chicco and Fede at football practice instead of half-watching them from across the cafe’s seating area. 

For the third time, Eva asks, “Is he still there?” and Eleonora has to force her eyes off Eva’s face to peek at the back of Chicco’s head and hope Edoardo doesn’t catch her staring. She can’t bring herself to look a seat over, but knows that however long Chicco is there, Edoardo will be there, too. 

“Yes.” She stiffly pulls her sandwich up to her mouth and bites into it.  “And, before you ask again, he will still be there in five minutes, and five minutes after that, and five minutes after  _ that _ —”

“I’m surprised you haven’t gone to say ‘hi,’ yet,” Eva says, mimicking Eleonora’s annoyed tone, and silence falls. Eleonora doesn’t know what to say, Edoardo was a touchy subject before she fully embraced the Ban—and as far as Eva is concerned, Eleonora’s still not totally onboard—but telling Eva the details of her encounter with Stefano is  _ not _ something she wants to do. Support the Ban? Sure, Eleonora will do that, she gets that, she thinks it’s a fantastic idea. Hope Eva and Edoardo’s relationship heals over lots and lots of time, several years—decades, even—in the future? Eleonora will also do that. Possibly ruin any chance they have at reconciliation? 

No, thank you. 

Eva breaks the silence first, returning her fork to her bowl. “I know you talked to him at Martucci’s party.” 

“I just—” Eleonora starts, uncertain of the direction of her sentence, and turns away from Eva’s hard stare. “I still don’t really know what happened and I thought he might be more willing to talk about it than you are.” 

“And did he say anything?” 

Eleonora shakes her head. “No.” The dinner comes unbidden to her mind. No need to bring  _ any _ of that night up, actually. “No, he was an asshole about it.” 

Eva is silent, now, looking down at her bowl, and Eleonora reaches across the table to grab her hand. “Hey.” 

When Eva meets her eyes, she continues, “I’m sorry I wasn’t with you on this early. I am, really, and I get it now.” 

Eva looks as if her heart broke once again and it turns Eleonora’s stomach. “No more Edo.” And that’s the worst part of it all: it’s not Edoardo Incanti, most popular boy in school, star football player, and actual  _ god— _ according to Silvia—that they have to let go of, it’s Edo, the dumb boy they grew up with. 

It makes her sick. 

“Ele—”

“Hi, guys,” Silvia says, interrupting Eva’s sentence and sliding into the booth next to her. Eleonora draws her hand back as Silvia takes off her backpack, trying to fix a pleasant expression on her face. Eva looks less successful across the table. 

“Silvia,” Eleonora greets, forcing a smile. “I thought you had the radio meeting?” 

“Oh, yeah, it got done early,” Silvia says, pulling a notebook from her bag, setting it on the table, and looking between them. “Didn’t you get my texts?” 

“Ah, no, my phone’s in my bag.” 

Eva nods. “Same.”

“That’s okay.” Silvia turns the notebook around and pushes it across the table so Eleonora can read it. “This was basically what they talked about, and I think what we need is—”

—

Saturday marks a week from the anniversary of her hospitalization and she wakes up to her mother bustling around the kitchen. For a moment, she watches her mother from the doorway, trying to let the sight warm her chest and push away the ache from the past month. A bitter taste grows in her mouth, instead. She steps into the kitchen. “Mami.” 

“Nori, baby,” Isidora says, stepping away from the stove to smack a quick, hard kiss on Eleonora’s forehead. “Good morning. Go get Filo, I want us all to eat together.” 

Startled by the abrupt affection and the sentiment, it takes Eleonora a moment to wander out of the kitchen and down the hall. She ducks under the ridiculous curtain Filippo uses instead of a door and hisses, “Filo, wake up.” 

“No.” He burrows into his pillow, pink hair sticking up at wild angles. 

“Mom’s home.” 

That makes him start, peeling off his blankets and propping himself up on his elbow. “She is?” 

“Yeah,” she says and folds her arms across her chest. “She’s making breakfast and wants us all to eat together.” 

He frowns. “What an unfortunate start to my morning.” 

“ _ Filo _ .” 

“What?” She pins him with a glare. “We’re both thinking it.” 

“You’re such an asshole.” He furrows his brows at her before rubbing a hand across his jaw. “Just get up, please.” 

“I’m getting up.” 

She exits his room but lingers in the hallway.  _ What an unfortunate start to my morning _ . Were they both actually thinking it? Isidora is finally back in Rome, but the only feeling Eleonora can muster on the matter is confusion. For one thing, it’s a known fact in the Sava household that Isidora does not eat breakfast, let alone make it. For another, she had spoken very stern, very cold words over the phone when she saw pictures of Eleonora’s haircut, but said nothing upon seeing it in person. And for a third? She never calls Eleonora ‘baby.’ 

What the fuck is going on? 

Isidora gives her a smile as she returns to the kitchen, opening a cabinet and pulling out plates. Silently, Eleonora sets the table while her mother finishes cooking and when they’re done, Filippo makes his way from his room to the table. 

“Filo, hi,” Isidora says, kissing his cheek after he drops into the chair at the head of the table, Eleonora sitting on one side of the table and their mother the opposite. 

“Morning, mama,” he replies, giving her a close-lipped smile, but doesn’t turn his tired eyes from his plate. 

For a few minutes, they eat quietly, and Eleonora wonders at what to say. Obviously, the haircut will be ignored, and Isidora doesn’t know a single thing about Edoardo, and she’s been doing much better with her eating despite everything that’s happened, and she can only think of equations she memorized for maths. 

Isidora speaks before Eleonora has to come up with anything. “Ah, Nori, I can only stay through tomorrow night.” 

Her confusion burns away, replaced with a low fury in the pit of her stomach. She looks across the table and in her periphery, Filippo glances up from his plate. “What?” 

“We’ve been having these conferences, the ones I told you about with the professors from Milan,” Isidora explains. “They scheduled an extra one last minute for Monday.” 

“Are you coming back, then?” Pressure starts building behind her eyes but she blinks it away. 

At this, Isidora hesitates, looking torn. “No, actually. That was actually something I wanted to talk to you two about.” 

Eleonora swallows and sets down her fork. “Okay.” 

Isidora looks between her and Filippo and a small smile grows on her face. “I’ve decided to move in with Paulo and the kids.” 

A beat passes and Filippo says, mechanically, “That’s great, mom.” 

“Yes, I think it makes more sense for when I’m in Padua,” she explains, tone becoming excited. “I stay at his most of the time, anyways, and my apartment hardly ever gets used, so there’s no reason to pay for it, really. What do you think?” 

_ For when I’m in Padua _ . It rings in Eleonora’s head, the implications of it, the idea behind it that Padua is merely a place Isidora visits, that Paulo’s is merely just another place to stay while she’s in town. 

What does Eleonora think? She thinks her mom should stop pretending she still lives in Rome at all. 

She says, instead, “It sounds good for you, mama, it really does,” and it isn’t a lie. 

Filippo echoes her statement hollowly, but Isidora’s expression indicates that she can’t tell anything is wrong. 

A little anger bleeds into Eleonora’s tone when she asks, “What does that have to do with you not coming home this week?”

“Paulo’s kids have a trip with school this week, it’s the easiest time to get everything moved in,” Isidora says, reaching across the table and taking Eleonora’s hand. She blinks down at the table, unable to look her mother in the eye. “I’m sorry, I know I said I would be here all week, but this all happened so suddenly.” 

She  _ promised _ to be home all week. A beat passes. “Will you be home for the weekend?” 

Isidora’s expression falls and she squeezes Eleonora’s hand. “No, Nori, I won’t.” 

Eleonora inhales sharply and draws her hand from her mother’s. “Okay.” She pushes her chair back and stands, ignoring the way her mother looks at her and the hand Filippo extends. “I’m going to go shower. Thank you for breakfast.” 

“Ah, of course—” Eleonora doesn’t stay to hear the end of her sentence. 

—

Eleonora spends the rest of the weekend at the Brighi’s and only returns home Monday morning to grab clean clothes before school. Isidora is already gone, having called and left a voicemail Sunday night. Eva would likely fail chemistry if she’s late again, and so Eleonora bikes to school alone, enters the building alone, and encounters Edoardo in the stairwell alone. 

If she wasn’t already late, she would turn around and take the long way to her history class, but she is and tries to pass by him as quickly as she can. 

“Eleonora.” He slips off the windowsill and follows after her, damn long legs making it easy to keep up. “Can we talk?”

They make it to the second floor, but her class is on the third. “No.” 

“You don’t have the whole story.” 

She almost whips around to glare at him, but restrains herself, turning up the next set of stairs. “I don’t care.” 

“You did the last time we talked,” he says and steps in front of her as they reach the landing. 

She stares at the ground for half a second before glaring at him. He’s watching her with raised eyebrows, apprehension clear in his eyes and lips pressed together. “The last time we talked, your father made gross sexual comments about me and you didn’t do anything to stop him.” 

His lips part. “Ele—”

“I told you not to call me that.” She pushes past him and starts climbing the stairs. 

“Okay, what he said was wrong—”

She whirls around on the top step and glares down at him. “Did you tell him that?” 

He clenches his jaw. 

“If the answer to that is ‘no,’” she swallows and lets her anger control her tongue. “Then you’re a worse guy than I thought you ever could be.” 

Edoardo says nothing, eyes flickering between hers, and for a moment she lets herself look at him. There’s stubble along his jaw, on his upper lip, and he has his hood flipped over his head, tiny purple bruises under his eyes. His lips are chapped, cheeks hollow, and he looks like has hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. Something in her stomach turns, but she pushes it down and leaves him standing alone on the landing. 

—

“No, no, no, he said ‘Oh I can totally see you being a big-shot journalist in America’ and  _ then _ started talking about the scooter,” Sana corrects, laughing behind her hand as Silvia pouts from the other side of the room. “Just because you don’t like Luchino very much doesn’t mean you should leave out the part where he compliments you.” 

Fede laughs, listing a little into the couch cushions as Silvia’s pout deepens further. “He’s so small and he talks about such strange stuff, Eva, why did you introduce us?” 

Eva gapes at her. “What do you mean?” 

“The guys you’re friends with are so  _ weird _ —” Sana laughs again, “—and none of them are as hot as—” Silvia presses her hand palm down into the table, pursing her lips pointedly, “—he who shall not be named—” Fede giggles at this one, and Eva’s had enough to drink that the Edoardo allusion slides right past her, and Silvia doesn’t really finish her sentence, “—and, I just…”

“Can’t handle being around mere mortals when  _ gods _ exist?” Sana asks, raising her eyebrows, and even Eleonora laughs this time. 

“Oh, god, not this again,” Silvia groans, putting her face in her hand. “I said that  _ once _ when I was  _ drunk _ and you won’t let it go!” 

“Because it’s comedic gold!” 

The conversation dissolves into the best one-liners of the group, then, and Eleonora relaxes into the couch, watching them gesture and argue and laugh, and smiles. 

A year ago tomorrow, she was in the hospital, stomach hurting because she hadn’t eaten anything with more calories than a piece of celery for several days and now? Her stomach hurts because she can’t stop laughing. 

Eva suggested Monday night that they get together at Eleonora’s house Friday and make dinner and watch terrible romcoms, not a single word like ‘anniversary’ or ‘hospital’ mentioned, and five days later, Eleonora found her home invaded by the sweetest girls on the planet. They used the Brighi’s homemade pizza recipe, Sana taught them how to make  _ lokma,  _ Eva put on  _ The Lizzie McGuire Movie _ instead of a romcom with the intention of making fun of the Italian accents, Filippo is taking her to her favorite nursery tomorrow, and Eleonora couldn’t be happier. 

Her phone buzzes as Eva leans into her shoulder. 

> _22:47, from_ **Edoardo Incanti**  
>  Thought about you today and I’ll be thinking about you tomorrow. You probably don’t care to hear this from me, but I’m really proud of you, Eleonora. You’ve always been a strong person, but I’ve seen it especially this past year. You’re an incredible friend, one of the smartest people I know, and a good person, and you deserve all the best in the world. I hope this next year can be even better for you. 

She sucks in a breath as she reads, drawing Eva’s attention. Luckily she’s quiet enough that the other three across the room continue laughing and bickering. For a moment, both she and Eva are quiet, reading and rereading the text, and her throat burns. Why would he send this? This doesn’t fit into the neat little box she’s dropped him in, this breaks the rules, this doesn’t add up. 

“Ele,” Eva whispers and Eleonora can’t draw her eyes off the screen. 

It’s too much, now, to sit and laugh and make fun of American movies and pretend there isn’t a storm raging inside her. Abruptly, she stands, leaving Eva on the couch, and a quiet falls. She swallows, mumbling, “I’ve got to go to the bathroom, sorry.” 

Sana frowns from her seat next to Fede and Eva says, once again, “Ele,” but Eleonora disappears down the hallway without a backwards glance. 

Rather than going to the bathroom, she enters her room and shuts the door, pressing her back into the wall and letting out a shaky breath. Her phone buzzes again. 

> _22:50, from_ **Edoardo Incanti**  
>  And if it means anything, I’m sorry about what my dad said and that I didn’t do anything about it.

What the fuck?  _ What the fuck? _ Tears come quickly and her heart rate rises and for a moment, she wonders if it will explode, if her entire being might explode. Her breathing quickens as she reads over the two texts again before she impulsively throws her phone across the room. It clatters against her chair and she sinks to the floor, pressing her hands into her face. 

The noise from down the hallway stops. Then, hasty whispers and floorboards creaking and she presses her hand to her mouth to keep from making any sound. After a moment, it all fades and the only thing she can hear is the blood rushing through her ears. 

_ What the fuck is going on?  _

Her throat still burns and tears start pooling atop her hand, palm pressed too hard to her mouth for them to slip in between, and her face heats. What does it mean? Why would he text her if he knows she’s pissed? Why is he apologizing to her instead of the Brighi’s? And why is he still there when he knows Stefano’s wrong? 

Why does it matter to her so much? 

Several tear filled minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. “Ele?” 

Eva cracks it open and Eleonora chokes out, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” god, she must’ve ruined the night. 

“Shh, no, Ele, no, don’t say that,” Eva says, pushing through the door to crouch next to Eleonora, placing a hand on her back and brushing her hair out of her face. “Don’t ever apologize for stuff like this.” 

Eleonora shakes her head, looking over at Eva, and wipes at her cheeks. “Where’s everyone else?” 

“I got them to leave.” Eleonora opens her mouth but Eva cuts her off. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“‘Didn’t do anything wrong,’ I ruined the night,” she insists, voice thick. “We were having a great time and because I can’t keep a fucking handle on things—”

“Stop.” Eva’s voice is stern and she shifts to kneel next to Eleonora. “They’ll be fine, they’re big girls, they can get over their friend having feelings, okay?” 

Eleonora sniffles and says nothing. 

Eva continues, “‘Trust your friends,’ that’s what you told me on your birthday, remember?” 

A beat passes and Eleonora looks over at her. Concern written all over her face, she wipes a thumb under Eleonora’s eye, cupping her cheek. “Trust me with this, okay?” She smiles. “I’m here for you.” 

“Okay,” she whispers, and Eva’s smile grows. She nods and stands, pulling Eleonora up with her, and guides them over to Eleonora’s bed. 

After they clamber atop her mattress, burrow in her pillows, and pull the blanket up to cover both of them, Eleonora’s head leaning on Eva’ shoulder, she asks, quietly, “Why do you think he sent it?” 

It’s a dumb question. They were friends, for fuck’s sake, he’s the only other person in the world besides Eva that knows the whole story about why tomorrow’s such a big deal, and, despite everything, he still cares about her. That much is evident, at least. 

“I don’t know,” Eva murmurs, pulling her fingers through Eleonora’s hair, but Eleonora suspects she’s thinking about the same things. “He was trying to be nice?” 

“He’s about three months too late,” Eleonora says, sniffling a little, and Eva shakes with a chuckle. “God, he’s such an dickhead.” 

“Absolutely,” Eva agrees and Eleonora snorts. “I wish it didn’t make you sad, though.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“What he said, I wish it wasn’t such a big deal,” Eva explains. “For either of us.” A silent beat passes, her fingers working through a knot in Eleonora’s hair, and she continues, pensive, “What did you tell me last week? At the mall?” 

Eleonora frowns. “That you should buy that dress?” 

Eva chuckles, shaking her head. “No, that what guys think shouldn’t matter, right?” 

Eleonora sighs, staring up at her ceiling. No truer sentiment has ever been spoken, she thinks, but, “That’s so much easier said than done.” 

—

December comes brisk with a cold that sinks into her skin, down to her bones, and a grey lighting no one can shake. Her heart is frozen and mustering up emotions beyond an ice blue apathy takes energy she doesn’t have anymore to give. For the most wonderful time of the year, Eleonora doesn’t think she’s ever felt so dismal. 

“Is your mom going to be back for Christmas?” Eva asks, combing her fork through her box of pasta, and squints over at Eleonora. The light from the window streams through Eva’s hair and casts a faint orange hue on her face.

“Mm, no,” she says, pulling her phone out of her pocket after it buzzes. “I don’t think so.” 

> _13:07, from_ **Unknown**  
>  Hey, this is Eleonora Sava, right?   
>  You go to school with Edoardo? 

Even among strangers she can’t escape him. 

“Why not?” 

Eleonora looks down the stairwell at the hallway below. Edoardo and his friends linger opposite the stairwell, like they always have, just as she and the girls have always claimed the windowsill, and for a moment she wishes that Eva hadn’t been so stubborn as to insist they keep their spots at school through the Ban.  _ Edoardo might piss me the fuck off, but he’s not going to make me move _ . 

“First Christmas officially with Paulo and the kids,” Eleonora says, grimacing a little as she takes a screenshot of the text and tabs over to her message with Edoardo. His texts from the other night sit there unanswered and she loads the screenshot into the message bar so they get pushed up her screen and she doesn’t have to look at them anymore. 

“Have you met them?” 

Eleonora’s thumb hovers over the ‘send’ button and she glances down at the boys again. Edoardo ducks his head as her eyes land on him and she presses her lips together. Is it worth it to find out who this is if he somehow takes it the wrong way? “No, I haven’t yet. She’s shown me pictures, though. His kids are little, pretty cute.” 

Eva sighs. “That’s nice, I guess.” 

“Yeah.” 

> _13:10, to_ **Edoardo Incanti**  
>  [screenshot]   
>  Do you know who this is? 

She sets her phone down on the windowsill and looks over at Eva. “Do you and Filippo want to come over to ours?” 

Eleonora smiles and nods. “I’ll ask him.” 

“Good.” Eva looks pleased and turns back to her pasta, pulling out a textbook as Eleonora’s phone buzzes. 

> _13:11, from_ **Edoardo Incanti**  
>  Can we go talk about this somewhere 
> 
> _13:11, to_ **Edoardo Incanti**  
>  No  
>  Answer the question 

She glares down at Edoardo, looking up at her with a grimace. 

> _13:11, from_ **Edoardo Incanti**  
>  It’s my brother   
>  I have no idea how he got your number 

When she looks back at him, his mouth is drawn in a tight line and he looks just annoyed as she manages to feel. She bites the inside of her cheek and tilts her head to the side, eyes narrowing before she turns to her phone. 

> _13:12, to_ **Edoardo Incanti**  
>  Why would he even want my number? 

As he reads her message, he glances up at her and flicks his eyes down the hallway, a clear question to talk in private. She gives a minuscule shake of her head and a muscle ticks in his jaw. 

> _13:12, from_ **Edoardo Incanti**  
>  I don’t know 
> 
> _13:12, to_ **Edoardo Incanti**  
>  Bullshit 

Edoardo takes a moment to watch her glare at him, expression shifting into uneasiness, and Eva flicks a page in her textbook, setting Eleonora’s heart rate off.  _ No more Edo _ . 

> _13:12, to_ **Edoardo Incanti**  
>  Lying is the worst thing you could do right now   
>  You know that right?

Edoardo looks he might be sick, now, but she only raises her eyebrows, breathing deeply through her nose. She sets her phone aside to grab her own lunch out of her bag and by the time she settles her Tupperware on her lap, he’s texted back. 

> _13:13, from_ **Edoardo Incanti**  
>  Yeah, you’re right   
>  The day after you came over my dad suggested I give your number to Andrea   
>  I told him no, but he must’ve gotten it somehow anyway

A brief flash of anger burns her heart and she texts back before she thinks about it. 

> _ 13:13, to  _ **Edoardo Incanti**   
>  Can I trust that that’s true? Clearly you  don’t have a spine when it comes to  your father 

The ice freezes back, jagged, as Edoardo looks up at her, jaw clenched and eyes hard, and slides his phone into his pocket before turning back to his friends’ conversation. She swallows, staring hotly at the side of his face, before letting her own phone clatter loudly against the windowsill and picking up her fork. 

Eva glances over, raising an eyebrow, as she flips another page in her textbook. “Everything okay?” 

Eleonora nods and gives her a tight smile. “Yeah, of course.” 

—

“Your stress is stemming from not knowing,” her therapist says a few days later once Eleonora’s poured the whole story out on the floor. 

Eleonora sits cross-legged on the couch, hands fisted together, and stares at her therapist perching calmly on her swivel chair on the opposite side of the room. Two silent tear-tracks dry on Eleonora’s cheeks but other than that, there’s not a stitch of emotion to be found on her person. “Not knowing? I feel like I know too much.” 

“Sure,” her therapist agrees. “You might know more about Edoardo’s father than Eva, or more reasons to enforce the Ban, but you have no idea  _ why _ you’re doing what you’re doing.” 

“You just said I know more reasons to enforce the Ban.” Eleonora opens her mouth, trying to find words to express her utter confusion. “That’s a why, right?” 

“Yes, but look at it like this: you’re writing an essay, an argumentative essay, and you’ve collected all this evidence and citations and analysis to support your argument, but you have no idea why you picked that topic to write on.” Her therapist claps her hands together and the sound rings softly throughout the room. She shrugs. “You stress over something you don’t have a clear motivation for.” 

“What am I supposed to do? Ask for the whole story?” Eleonora gapes at her when she nods. Sure, she might be right, but what does that matter when, “I’ve  _ tried _ that.” 

“Have you asked Eva?” 

“Asked Eva?” Eleonora splutters. “No, this was so hard on her, I don’t want to make it worse!” 

“Eleonora,” her therapist starts, leaning forward, and Eleonora bites her lip. It’s a lifeline, almost, anticipating what will be said next, and she tries not to look too eager. “This is not about Eva, anymore. This is about you and how you’re feeling about it.” 

Eleonora’s lip trembles, the pressure behind her eyes builds. 

“Eva told you to trust her,” her therapist says, relaying back what Eleonora has already clarified. “From what you’ve told me, you can trust her to keep her feelings on the matter separate from what you need, yes?” 

Eleonora hesitates, then nods. 

“Good, when will you see her next?” 

—

The second Friday of the month, Eleonora goes straight home with Eva after school, saying brief goodbyes to their friends and riding silently back to the Brighi’s. She’d asked the day before over dinner with Eva and Paula if they could talk about what happened, finally, and now that answers are so close, her mind buzzes. 

They dump their bikes next to the Brighi’s and head inside through the side door, Eleonora clutching her hands together, and find Paula waiting for them in the kitchen, as agreed. There’s a kettle on the stove, two mugs on the table next to Paula’s, and Eva slips her backpack off her shoulders. Eleonora lingers in the doorway for a moment, watching Eva cross the room, slip an arm around Paula’s shoulders, and kiss her mother easily on the cheek. They exchange a whispered greeting before Eva walks around and slips into the chair next to Paula and Eleonora toes off her shoes. After setting her backpack next to Eva’s, she grabs a hotpad and the kettle and joins them at the table, sitting across from Paula. 

Silently, she pours the tea into the two empty mugs and tops off the third, the grey light from the afternoon streaming across the dark wood of the table and making shining, rectangular patches on the varnish. She sets the kettle down on the hotpad and moves to take her mug, but Paula’s hand slips in between and their fingers interlace. Eleonora looks up for a moment, mouth opening with a quiet inhale, and Paula gives her a smile mostly around her eyes. She squeezes Eleonora’s hand before letting go and begins speaking as Eleonora takes her mug.

“All Edoardo did the first few months he lived with us was ask when his dad was coming back to get him,” Paula says, hands encircling her mug. Eleonora can’t take her eyes off Paula’s face and Eva stares at her mother as well. Clearly this is not the story either of them were expecting. “We said every time we would tell him when his dad contacted us about it, that Stefano was very sad about Lora passing and that he just needed time. 

“My brother and I never had a, uh,  _ communicative _ relationship growing up, and that carried over when we left home.” Paula sighs and gives a tight smile. “I don’t think we spoke once he graduated and went to college until he brought his family back here from Milan. Lora didn’t know anyone in the city and so he asked if I would spend time with her. We became fast friends, the best of friends, and I don’t know how much Stefano appreciated that.” 

Tongue dry, Eleonora asks, “Is that why Edoardo came to live with you after she passed?” 

Paula nods. “Lora requested it specifically in her will, or I don’t think my brother would’ve followed through. He was always a busy man, was hardly ever home. Lora and Edoardo were basically living with us by the time she fell sick. He was already making plans to move back to Milan before she’d even become terminal and she always said she hated growing up in Milan, that she didn’t want to raise her kids there.  _ This _ —” she presses her fingers into the tabletop, “—was a place she felt comfortable leaving Edo, but I don’t think my brother saw it that way.” 

“What do you mean?” This time Eva asks, voice tense, hand looped through her mother’s arm. 

“Stefano always felt least loved by my parents, by everyone.” Paula inhales, sharp, and rubs a finger underneath her nose. “I remember they would have screaming matches after I went to bed and it always boiled down to him thinking they cared for me more. That’s why Lora was perfect in his eyes. When they started dating, he’d already had Andrea from a previous relationship and she was so willing to take care of him. To Stefano that meant she loved  _ him _ enough, not Andrea. And because Andrea was not Lora’s own son, he knew she would never love him more than she loved Stefano.” 

Several long beats of silence pass. Eleonora watches Paula’s eyes flicker over the table, bouncing off the mugs, Eleonora’s hands, the kettle, and staring hard at the knots in the wood. “Her choosing to leave Edo here meant she picked us over my brother. I don’t know if he’s ever forgiven her for it, even now.” 

“Why did he come back, then?” Eleonora asks at a whisper. 

“The will said Edo should stay with us until he was sixteen, at the least.” Paula shrugs, fingers flexing against the mug in her hands. “I don’t know why he waited another year before reaching out.” 

“Did Edoardo say why he decided to go live with his father?” The need for answers to this question itches under her skin, but she finds herself craving the story Paula is set on telling as well. 

“When Edo first left, he said that he’d overstayed his welcome,” Paula tells her. “Stefano would say that all the time when we were growing up, especially in places he felt were delegating him to a smaller importance; among my friends, at my parents’ work functions, with our extended family, even. ‘I don’t feel welcome here,’ ‘they’re not very welcoming,’ ‘I want them to welcome me,’ things like that. It was a strange enough turn of phrase that when Edo said something similar, I asked when Stefano started talking to him again.” 

“Again?” Eva asks, eyebrows scrunching. 

“Stefano would call on Edo’s birthday and the day of Lora’s passing and sometimes at Christmas or Easter.” Paula lets out another sad laugh. “Edo was always so excited to hear from him.” 

“What would he say?” 

“In the beginning, he would promise Edo that the next year he’d come get him, and the next year, and the next, until Edo was twelve and liable to call bullshit.” Paula laughs a little, but it’s not a happy sound. “When you girls were thirteen, Edo actually went and spent half the summer in Milan with him, the first time they’d spent any time together, really, since Lora passed.” 

“He was gone that year, wasn’t he?” Eva muses as if she truly had forgot—and maybe she had—voice quiet, and raises an eyebrow at Eleonora. 

When she was thirteen years old, Edoardo Incanti asked to kiss her on her back porch because he wanted to practice before he kissed the girl he liked and Eleonora said yes because they were friends—good friends, she likes to think. Beyond that hot summer day, she can’t remember much else of Edoardo when she was thirteen until school started, and then he only ever played soccer and hung out with Chicco and Fede because they went to the school to which he would transfer. 

Because his father wanted him to transfer. 

Eleonora shrugs, looking down at the tabletop and picking at her nails, trying to feign uncertainty or indifference or something besides a slight panic. “I don’t remember. I think that was before we decided we could start hanging out with him again after elementary school.” She looks up at Eva. “He and his friends still had ‘cooties,’ right?” 

Eva smiles, a light little thing among the distressing topic. “Right.” 

Biting her lip, Eleonora redirects the conversation again. “Did his dad stop talking to him after that?” 

“Edo came back after that summer and said he had a great time. He was talking with his dad for a few weeks, always seemed happy about it, and then he came to Giorgio and I one day and asked to transfer schools at the semester.” Paula frowns. “When we asked him why he wanted to, he said because Stefano asked him. And we asked about all his friends from his old school and he said he could always make new ones. My brother was like that: everything is replaceable. 

“I’m not proud of this, but one of the times Edo was grounded, I checked his messages with Stefano because I was curious,” Paula admits, running a hand over her hair. “Stefano asked him to transfer just as the school year started. Edo didn’t come to us until October, and they had little contact during that time.” 

“You’re saying Edoardo’s dad stopped talking to him because Edo wouldn’t do what he wanted?” Eva asks incredulously. 

“It’s possible.” 

“So, why did Edoardo agree to live with him?” Eleonora asks, an equal amount of incredulity apparent in her voice. 

Paula shrugs. “I don’t know, so I can’t tell you.” 

Eleonora frowns; one set of answers at a time, then. “But you can tell me about the argument?” 

Paula sighs and nods. “He reached out to us and we jumped at the chance to talk to him, he had been sporadically texting us since he left and ignoring Eva at school until Eva decided to ignore him back.” 

“It worked, that’s all I’m going to say,” Eva cuts in and Paula shakes her head. The joke doesn’t lighten the atmosphere, but Eleonora appreciates the effort. 

“When dinner started, everything seemed normal, it was like he never left.” Paula sounds wishful, like she might give anything for it to be like that again. Looking back on the past three months, Eleonora is annoyed to find herself inclined to agree. “Everyone was laughing, talking, having a good time, and I made the mistake of asking about my brother. 

“Edo became defensive immediately, even though I only asked how he was.” Paula’s voice turns sad once again and Eleonora sips at her cold tea. “He kept listing all of these things Stefano was letting him do or doing for him, throwing parties and driving cars and buying clothes—”

“Taking him to Milan,” Eva interjects, staring blankly at the table. 

“Taking him to Milan.” Paula motions at her daughter. “He was a boy possessed, talking as fast as he possibly could, not letting anyone else speak. I’d never seen him like that before. And Eva said—"

“I told him it sounded awesome and he started bashing on all of us, talking bullshit and lying.” A spasm of pain flashes across Eva’s face. 

Eleonora bites her lip, eyes flickering between the two of them. “Things Stefano told him?” 

“I would assume.” 

“He  _ lived _ with you, though,” Eleonora points out. “Did he believe what he was saying?” 

“Stefano tells every lie with enough truth to make it believable.” Paula reaches for the kettle and fills their mugs up again. “When he would talk to me while we were still at home, it was to use me to spread rumors about friends that had left him or girls that wouldn’t want to be with him, people I didn’t know enough about to tell the lie from the truth. He told Lora they were moving to Rome for the schools and to be close to his family, us, Nonna, and  _ that _ was true, but he never told her it was to keep her from her family, too.” 

Eva says, “And now, Edo.” 

“‘Stefano always felt least loved,’” Eleonora quotes, the words recalled easily to her mind. She looks at Eva. Her dinner at Edoardo’s lights up, never easily gone from her brain, as well as the texts with him from last week.  _ You’re fucking—we’re friends—my dad suggested I give your number to Andrea—he must’ve gotten it somehow anyway. _ Something dawns inside her, alongside a slick turn of her stomach. “He takes things he wants and ruins what he can’t have, then?” 

“Along those lines, yes.” 

“How do you know all this?” 

“Retrospect and assumption,” Paula says, sighing, and stands. She crosses to the other side of the kitchen and pulls a cigarette pack from a drawer. “Some things Lora told me, other things I found out were true from former friends or my relatives. My brother is a simple person, he hasn’t changed much over the years.” 

She pulls a cigarette from the pack, thin and white between her fingers, and looks back over. “Assumptions they may be, but I’ve never been far from the mark with him.” 

—

Eva drags her down the hallway once Paula dismisses herself to smoke outside and they find themselves standing in the doorway to the empty room that used to be Edoardo’s. Staring at the mattress, Eleonora asks, “Did he really say you guys never cared about him?” 

“Yes.” Eva’s voice is low. 

“Did it sound like he believed it?” 

“No.” Eva grasps her hand. “But it didn’t sound like he believed anything that night.” 

—

Eleonora tries to find Edoardo at school on Monday and comes up empty by the time the bell rings in her maths class. Sana follows her through the halls, watches her looking dismally down each side, at each face that passes, and asks, “Who are you looking for?” 

“Edo,” she answers on autopilot and has to stop as she digests what she just said. Edo, not Edoardo. Her heart smarts and her mind hasn’t stopped buzzing since her conversation with Paula. 

“Well,” Sana says, pointing down the hallway. “Chicco’s over there—”

“Shit!” Eleonora spots Chicco disappearing around the corner and takes after him a little too fast for normal. 

He’s with Federico and Rocco when she finally catches up to him, grabbing his arm and all but forcing the group to a stop. “Chicco!” 

“Ele,” he responds almost in kind to her hyperactive state. He’s a person who lives off chaos, energy level rising with the people around him, and looks at her with wide eyes. The other’s watch her, too, saying their own greetings to both her and Sana who followed close at her heels, but Eleonora can only focus on Chicco. “What’s up?” 

“Where’s Edo?” 

For a moment, he stares at her, eyebrows quirking up and eyes narrowing. “You’re looking for Edo?” 

“Yes.” There’s murmuring from the others but she ignores them.

“You, Eleonora Francesca Sava, are looking for Edoardo Incanti?” 

Losing patience she says, “Yes, is that a difficult concept to grasp or is your brain just running slow today?” 

Chicco barks a laugh but doesn’t look offended. In fact, he looks delighted, and her eyes narrow— “Edo’s in Milan for the break.” 

“Milan?” 

“Yes.” The corner of Chicco’s mouth tugs up in something akin to smugness. 

Why on earth would he leave as they’re starting winter exams? “For the break? We still have four more days until break.” 

“Congrats, you can read a calendar.” She frowns and Chicco shrugs. “His dad took him, said Christmas is always full of business parties or something.” 

“Oh, god.” His  _ dad _ . Her stomach churns, heart smarting even more than before, but Chicco agrees for a completely different reason. 

“I know, can you imagine Edo dressing up to kiss people’s asses?” His friends all start laughing and dicking around again, one incredibly frantic Eleonora Sava slipping from their minds, and start moving down the hallway. Chicco doesn’t follow, instead gripping her elbow and pulling her from her brain. “Is everything okay, Ele?” 

She darts her frantic eyes over his face, trying to find some semblance that he’s lying, that Edoardo isn’t actually in Milan with his dad, that Edoardo is still in Rome and that she can  _ talk  _ to him, but finds nothing. She nods, pressing her lips together, hard. “Yeah, everything’s great.” 

For a few seconds, he finds her eyes, looks like he’s searching for something, and lets a half smile quirk onto his lips. “You’d tell someone otherwise, right? Edo would want that.” 

It’s a knife to the chest. Her lips part. “Of course.” 

“Okay.” He squeezes her elbow before dropping it and looking down the hallway at his friends. He raises an eyebrow at her. “He’s been beating himself up this whole time, you know that, right?” 

She thinks of that day in the stairwell, how haggard Edoardo looked, and the day they texted, his ever apparent annoyance and outright nausea at talking about his family, and nods. “Yes.” 

Chicco nods, too, before heading after his friends. Over his shoulder, he says, “Tell Eva, would you?” 

—

Eleonora lets herself stalk Edoardo’s Instagram over break. Consistently, he posts stories everyday, something about Milan or the business dinners his dad is taking him to or Eliana, the same girl from when he was last there. Eleonora tries not to let this bury into her chest. 

Christmas Day—well, night—Eleonora curls under her blankets and taps through his story, belly full of food from the Brighi’s and silence encasing her. She wears a new pair of socks Filippo gave her and pajamas her nonna sent her and finds herself in a relatively good mood for the first time in ages, it seems. Even the blurry selfie of Edoardo with Eliana on his story—Eliana’s lipstick clearly smeared on his mouth, this time—can’t pull her mood down. He looks good, unbothered and content and  _ not _ distraught, and she wonders if maybe it would be better, for all parties involved, if she just left it alone, now. After all, she has answers in some form, she’s somehow fallen out of her ever present panic, for the moment, and Edoardo happy, or something along the same lines. 

Her brain itches, her therapist’s words coming to mind:  _ This is about you and how you’re feeling about it. _

She swipes down and out of his story and tabs over to her direct messages. She’s not on Instagram very often and definitely doesn’t message people over it, so her most recent direct message is with Edoardo himself. 

> _ 00:14, direct message with  _ **edincanti**
> 
> **eleonora.sava00** : Happy Christmas 

Her heart pounds in her chest, but he messages back almost instantly. 

> _ 00:14, direct message with  _ **edincanti**
> 
> **edincanti** : Happy Christmas   
>  **edincanti** : What’s up? 
> 
> **eleonora.sava00** : Can we talk when you get back? 

She doesn’t even try beating around the bush, any banter would just make her angry or turn her into a coward. 

> _ 00:14, direct message with  _ **edincanti**
> 
> **edincanti** : Sure   
>  **edincanti** : I’ll be back on the 3rd 
> 
> **eleonora.sava00** : The 4th, maybe sometime in the afternoon? 
> 
> **edincanti** : 15? 
> 
> **eleonora.sava00** : Ok 
> 
> **edincanti** : At that one cafe Filippo always took us to?
> 
> **eleonora.sava00** : Ok   
>  **eleonora.sava00** : See you then 
> 
> **edincanti** : See you then   
>  **edincanti** : Good night, Ele

She stares at his last message for too long and then clicks her phone off. 

—

Eleonora arrives at the cafe too early, orders herself a  _ macchiato _ , and drinks it outside, waiting for Edoardo to show up. Passersby give her strange looks, chin tucked into her coat, shoulders huddled over her coffee, and clearly outside in the cold of her own volition, but she can’t sit patiently at a table by herself. It only takes Edoardo a few minutes to show up, also early, and he stops next to her just outside the door. She nods at it and turns back to her coffee, hoping he gets the message. Sure, she’s too impatient to properly wait, but that doesn’t mean she has any clue of how she wants to start this conversation. 

Edoardo returns with his own coffee in due time and they start walking aimlessly, one person leading for a bit before the other takes over until their drinks are gone and she can squish her empty paper cup between her gloved fingers. When she does so, he holds his hand out and she passes over the crumpled, coffee-stained lump and he chucks both of their cups into a nearby trashcan. He looks at her. 

They’ve wandered onto a bridge overlooking a quiet street. She doesn’t think of the number of times they found themselves at this exact spot waiting for Filippo to come pick them up. Oh, to be fifteen again. 

Squinting up at him, the harsh December light cutting around him like glass, she gets straight to the point. “What happened that night?” 

“I fucked up.” It works with either night she could’ve chosen, with the Brighi’s or when she met Stefano, and her mouth twinges up at the corners involuntarily. 

“I can agree with that,” she says, nodding at him. His face is carefully blank, again, or, rather, a stony mask of neutrality, but she watches his lips twitch before she continues. “If you know that, why haven’t you apologized yet?” 

“I did.” 

“To the Brighi’s.” 

His mask shifts to one of discomfort and then breaks entirely as he looks away. “I can’t.” 

“Why not?” 

“The Brighi’s are good fucking people,” Edoardo says, tone biting. She leans into the bridge railing, lets the cold from the stone soak through her coat to her body. “What I did to them was shitty and, they’re just gonna forgive me as soon as anything even remotely sounding like an apology comes out of my mouth.” 

He stops, watching the cars pass on the road beneath the bridge. “They don’t deserve that.” 

This isn’t the time for her to pity him, so she doesn’t, and he says nothing when her voice becomes harsh. “Yeah, maybe they don’t deserve to have someone shitty come back into their lives, but they do deserve an apology from you.” 

“You’re right.” 

That makes her smile, but, luckily, she’s not looking at him. “Will you do that for me? Will you apologize?” 

He glances over at her the same time she turns her head and she raises her eyebrows. “In person?” 

He smiles, now, a sharp grin, and ducks his head so his mouth disappears into his coat. Muffled, he says, “In person.” 

“Good.” She takes a step closer to him, turning to press her side into the railing instead of her front, and tells her stomach to calm down. “Can I ask you something else?” 

“If I say ‘no,’ will you be mad?”

She purses her lips and stares at him until he nods, his mouth hiding back in his coat and his eyes dark with emotions she can’t place. “You’ve never mentioned your dad before.” 

“That’s not a question.” 

“You can answer it, though.” She tilts her head. “I’m sure this would come a lot easier to everyone else if we’d known he was important to you.” 

He sighs, but doesn’t look away from her. Shrugging, he says, “I was given another opportunity to have a family when I moved in with the Brighi’s. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful for wanting to be noticed by a father who didn’t want me, especially once your mom started staying in Padua.” 

It makes sense, it’s what she suspected, actually, even the comparison to her own situation—comparison’s she’s been drawing since Paula talked to her and Eva—all except one word. She sets aside the comment about her mother for now, shoves down her pounding heart. “Doesn’t.” Edoardo narrows his eyes. “He doesn’t want you.” 

The stony mask slides back on, coated in a thick layer of apprehension and eyes accented with resentment. His voice cracks when he says, “You don’t know that.” 

“Maybe not, but I know the Brighi’s want you.” She pauses, watches the way her words sink into his skin. It’s her turn to have her voice crack. “What about him makes him better than that?” 

“Parents are supposed to want their kids, right?” He asks, desperation and anger coloring his tone. “It’s one thing to know people who chose to keep you around want you, but I never knew if my dad wanted me until now.” 

“He  _ doesn’t _ .” 

“Stop saying that.” 

“It’s true!” 

“How would you feel if I told you your mom doesn’t want you, Ele?” He asks, gesturing with his hands stuck in his pockets. Her heart spasms, her stomach bottoms out, pressure builds behind her eyes.  _ Why would he say that? _ Why  _ wouldn’t _ he? “All the same signs are there.” 

“That’s different and you know it.” Her voice is thick and she wants to turn away from him, but can’t bring herself to do so. 

“I’m finally getting the chance to  _ know _ I didn’t fuck up the one relationship that’s supposed to go right,” he says and slips into resignation, she can see it in the way he draws himself back, stiffens how he stands. “Wouldn’t you kill for that?” 

_ Yes.  _

Eleonora looks back at the roadway underneath the bridge. After several long seconds in which she just breaths, Edoardo also turning to look off the bridge, she’s calm enough to speak without regretting it. “Did you mean it when you said the Brighi’s didn’t care about you.” 

A heavy silence lingers between them. “No.” 

She inhales abruptly, air rattling in her chest, and nods. “Okay.” For a moment she entertains the idea of talking to him about what Paula told her the other day, but when she looks over at him, she can’t bring herself to break his heart again. After all, would she like to be on the receiving end of her own comments? “I’ll talk to you later?” 

He gives her a choppy nod and lets her walk away, but the burn of his stare between her shoulder blades stays with her even after she’s turned the corner. 

**Author's Note:**

> love you all


End file.
